


Abandon All Faith

by Aini_NuFire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s05e10 Abandon All Hope..., Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Psychological Torture, episode AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After raising Death, Lucifer leaves Carthage having captured his prized vessel and the Winchesters' peculiar angel. Now in the Devil's clutches, can Sam and Cas resist his influence, or will despair and desperation drive every member of Team Free Will into saying "yes"?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

 

“Well helloo, Death.”

Sam stared in growing dread at the plume of smoke rising from the mass grave that Lucifer stood over. Behind the Devil, dozens of demon corpses lay sprawled across the field, the last of a series of sacrifices needed to raise the Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse. The tendrils of fog began to thin and peel away from the figure within, revealing a visage Sam had not been expecting. An older man with limp, lank hair combed back from a receding hairline took one step out of the pit. He had a gaunt face with an angular nose and beady eyes. Rather than a scythe, he held a simple black cane in one hand, which he set lightly on the ground as he stood before Lucifer.

Sam exchanged a paralyzed look of horror with Dean, who still lay half-sprawled on the ground after Lucifer had thrown him into a tree. Their plan to ice the Devil with the Colt had failed, and now not only had the final Horseman been released, but they had no possible means of escape. Lucifer meant to take Sam as a vessel, which was bad enough. But what would he do to Dean, Heaven’s proclaimed ‘Michael sword’?

With Sam’s heart pounding and blood rushing in his ears, he barely heard the exchange that went on between Lucifer and Death. He kept trying to think of a plan, but even if he and Dean tried to flee through the woods, they wouldn’t get far. The town of Carthage could still be full of demons—or at the very least Meg, who they hadn’t seen since the hell hounds… Sam felt the twist of a knife in his gut at the thought of Ellen and Jo, but he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on them right now.

He jolted as he suddenly found Lucifer standing before him. Death had vanished. “Time to go, Sam,” Lucifer said, reaching a hand out. Sam recoiled, backing up into a tree.

“No!” Dean shoved himself off the ground and lunged at Lucifer with Ruby’s knife. It was a stupid, futile move, one born of desperation. Lucifer simply flicked his wrist, and Dean went flying several feet through the air and hit the mound of dirt with a thud.

“Dean!” Sam moved to run toward his brother, but Lucifer intercepted him. Before he could wrench away, the Devil had grabbed his arm and Sam was swallowed in a whoosh of air and light. When his feet touched a solid surface again, he wobbled unsteadily, silver flecks spotting his vision. A low keening escaped his throat as he fought against the urge to puke his guts up.

“Sorry about that,” a mild tone penetrated his woozy haze.

Sam jerked out of Lucifer’s grip, and surprisingly the Devil let him. When his vision cleared, chipped stone walls, old piping, and rusted chains greeted him, all bathed in a warm ocher hue.

“Sam!”

He whirled at the familiar voice, eyes widening when he saw Cas standing in the middle of a ring of holy fire. Dammit, so Lucifer had nabbed the angel.

Cas’s expression was tight with his normal intensity, but also something akin to regret and worry. “You will not take him, Lucifer,” he said, sounding much more forceful than his position belied.

Lucifer sighed with the forbearance of a parent arguing with a child. “We’ve been through this, Castiel. Sam will say yes, because he must. As will you.” Lucifer snapped his fingers then, and a burst of blinding light had Sam throwing an arm across his face to shield his eyes. When the nova died down and he looked again, the ring of holy fire was extinguished, and Cas lay in a heap on the floor.

Sam shot a horrified look between the angel and Lucifer. The Devil merely canted his head in a smug mien.

“Don’t worry, he’s not dead. There’d be wing prints scorched into the floor if he were.”

Sam supposed that tidbit was meant to be reassuring, but it actually served to curdle his stomach.

Lucifer made a beckoning gesture, and two demons emerged from a side passage to haul the unconscious angel up. “I’m over Carthage,” he said blithely, turning back to Sam and reaching two fingers toward his forehead.

Sam jerked away, backing himself up against the wall. He swept his gaze around frantically for an exit, but they appeared to be in a basement, and the only doorway was currently blocked by the two demons supporting Cas. He had nowhere to go.

“Now Sam,” Lucifer chided. “There’s no reason to be frightened. Everything will be fine.” His soothing words sounded as though he were trying to calm a wild animal, but the effect it had was opposite. Sam’s pulse spiked, and he made a bolt for freedom, no matter how futile.

The other two demons had their arms full with Castiel, and wouldn’t be able to react defensively in time. Sam had intended to tackle them, maybe jar Cas awake when they all went tumbling down and the angel could wing them out of there…

Meg stepped out from behind a cement column on the left and delivered a right hook to Sam’s jaw. Stars exploded across his vision, and he reeled backward to hit the ground. The impact with the concrete punched the air from his lungs. Wheezing for breath, Sam scrambled to get up, but a second jab plunged him into blackness.

* * *

When Sam regained consciousness, the first thing that tipped him off to something being wrong was the plush mattress beneath him. Never in all the crappy roadside motels, or even his room at Bobby’s, had Sam ever slept on a bed that felt like one of those luxurious memory foams. He pried his eyes open and blinked at a smooth, off-white ceiling. Turning his head against a soft pillow, he found himself lying on a king-size bed draped in royal burgundy, with gold embroidery stitched in a grid. The bed had four bronze posts at the corners, each topped with an ornate sphere. Sam wasn’t sure where the hell he was, but he spared a brief grateful thought that he wasn’t _tied_ to the bed.

He sat up slowly, trying to figure out whether this was some sort of dream. Sam didn’t usually have nice dreams though. There’d been that one with Jess, which had actually turned out to be… Memory slugged him with equal force to the blow that’d knocked him out to begin with. _Lucifer._

Sam swung his legs over the bed and quickly stood, eyes darting around the spacious room. He was alone. There were no windows, but lamp sconces in the wall provided ample illumination. To the left of the bed was a round table with two wooden chairs, and next to it against the wall stood a bookcase full of hardcovers and paperbacks. On the right perpendicular wall was a long, low table holding a spread of food: fruits, vegetables, shortbread cookies, and a pitcher of water. Where the hell was he?

A quick pass of the reading material revealed spines marked Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ , Dante’s _Inferno_ , Goethe’s _Faust_ , and even several volumes of Neil Gaiman’s graphic novel series, _The Sandman_. Was that supposed to be Lucifer’s sense of humor? Choosing literature that depicted a suave, debonair Satan. Sam could add ‘narcissistic’ to the Devil’s list of unseemly character traits.

He inched forward enough to see that in the far corner was a door and what looked like a bathroom within. Turkish rugs covered the floor, and on the last wall hung a gilded painting depicting a man wrestling with a lion, hands hooked in the beast’s jaws to keep its fangs from sinking into a bare torso. Classy. Next to it was a closed oak door. Sam strode toward it and gripped the handle. It didn’t budge.

Letting out a huff of frustration, he turned back to consider his prison. Why had Lucifer put him here? Where was here? He walked the perimeter of the room, examining the walls in search of kinks or perhaps secret passage ways. _Yeah, right_. He peeked in the bathroom and found a large porcelain tub, separate shower done in aqua blue tile, and a large sink with gold faucets. There was no window there either.

It was the most opulent cage Sam had ever seen, but it was definitely a cage. He started to pace, both terrified of when Lucifer decided to show himself, but also anxious to get it over with. What was Satan’s deal here? Treating Sam almost like a royal guest instead of a prisoner.

His chest constricted when his thoughts turned to Dean, now completely alone. His brother was alive though, had to be. Lucifer had scooped Sam up in the blink of an eye and left Dean in that field, and Sam doubted the Devil would have made a return stop to hurt Dean further. At least, that’s what Sam had to believe, had to hold onto.

He knew his older brother wouldn’t handle his disappearance well, and he hated to think of what reckless thing Dean might do. Sam needed to get back to him soon. But escape seemed impossible. The one hope Sam clung to was Lucifer needed his permission to take him as a vessel. And that was something Sam would never give. He just hoped Dean trusted him enough to have faith in Sam’s strength, that his older brother wouldn’t do something stupid…

But a sliver of doubt slipped into his mind and quickly put a chink in the mental armor he’d been trying to erect. Sam had been weak before. How many times had he proven that left to his own devices, he just screwed things up? Dean kept him on the straight-and-narrow. Without him…well, there was a reason Dean had called after they’d gone separate ways. Sam didn’t know all the details of the future his brother had seen, but he got the distinct feeling that Dean didn’t fully believe Sam could resist the Devil. And if his own brother couldn’t have faith in him, how could Sam have faith in himself?

The click of a lock jolted him out of his thoughts, and he drew his shoulders back with a deep breath when the door opened. As Lucifer stepped inside, Sam caught sight of a darkened corridor with a railing, metal pipes, and what looked like old power plant turbine. So he wasn’t in some fancy house; the fancy quarters had been brought to him. Why though?

“It’s good to see you awake, Sam,” Lucifer said. “I do apologize for Meg’s over eagerness. Demons,” he tutted. “So bloodthirsty.”

Sam watched him warily, muscles taut with growing panic. _You won’t give in. You won’t give in_.

Lucifer spread his arms to encompass the room. “Are you comfortable?”

Sam snorted under his breath. “Why do you care?’ he managed to ground out.

“I care about you, Sam.” Lucifer pressed his palms together and gestured at him. “You set me free. You’re my true vessel. Why would I not want to take care of you?”

A thick lump started gathering in Sam’s throat, and he tried to muster up some bravado, false as it may have been. “So, what, you’re trying to trigger Stockholm Syndrome? It won’t work.”

Lucifer sighed and shook his head. “You’re having trust issues. I understand that. But I will never lie to you, Sam. I will never trick you.”

He wanted to scream for the archangel to stop using his name like that. “Like pretending to be Jess in my dream wasn’t a trick?” he said icily.

“Hm, I can see how you might think that,” Lucifer conceded. “But it wasn’t meant to be cruel. I know you miss her. I thought it’d be nice if you could share a peaceful moment with her memory.”

Sam gritted his teeth. He would _never_ admit how much that dream had tugged at his heart, how seeing her visage again made him miss her all the more, how it made him crave her touch, her voice.

“Where’s Cas?” he blurted, desperate to divert this conversation.

Lucifer quirked an eyebrow before both rose in understanding. “You mean Castiel? Hm, I like that nickname.” He began to pace in contemplation, following the same path Sam had worn in the carpet. “How interesting that you’ve given him one. Does he like it? He’s a rather peculiar angel, you know. Consenting to ride in an automobile with you to Carthage…”

Lucifer sounded mildly fascinated by this, which Sam didn’t understand, though he did glean one important piece of information—they were no longer in Carthage. Lucifer would have said ‘here’ if they were. Sam had figured he wasn’t in the town anymore, but confirmation was always good. Or not, since it meant no one knew where he was or how to find him. What if he wasn’t even in the same state anymore? No, his only slim chance of escape was if Cas could engineer a plan, but he had no idea whether the angel was in a state to try.

“What’d you do with him?” Sam pressed, ignoring the quiver in his gut.

Lucifer waved a hand dismissively. “He’s fine. Not enjoying the same accommodations as you, of course.”

Sam swallowed thickly. What did Lucifer want with Cas anyway? Sam knew why he was here as the ‘prized vessel,’ but what good was Cas? Surely Lucifer knew he was cut off from Heaven, and therefore couldn’t give him any information on the angels’ movements.

Lucifer eyed Sam curiously. “You consider Castiel a friend?”

Sam shifted his weight, wondering what the hidden motive behind the question was. “Yeah, he is,” he said after a moment.

“Hmm. He’s obviously loyal to you as well.”

Sam kept his mouth shut, not sure where the ‘obvious’ part came in. Sure, along the way Cas had gone from open disdain of Sam to passive tolerance, maybe even acceptance. But if anything, the angel was more devoted to Dean than Sam.

Lucifer’s lips twitched in mirth as he read Sam’s face. “You doubt that? Doubt that someone could care about you, after everything you’ve done.”

Sam clenched his fists, knowing Lucifer was going to twist this now, try to manipulate him. It didn’t stop the words from stinging though.

“You’ve always been different,” Lucifer continued consolingly. “From the beginning you had a destiny that caused others to fear you. Fear what you were capable of. Your father wanted to kill you. Your brother prepared himself for that eventuality.”

“Dean would never—” Sam cut in, but Lucifer’s sympathetic smile choked off his protest. He stepped forward, forcing Sam back until his legs hit the edge of the bed and it was either stand his ground or fall backward onto the mattress. And he did not want the Devil leering over him.

Lucifer’s gaze roved up and down, a slight purse to his lips that bespoke pity and compassion. “You’ve been through so much. And there’s still so much to do. But I promise you, Sam, once you open yourself to me, your worries will be over. All the pain, all the doubt, all the judgment. You will find peace once you take your rightful place in this world.”

Sam wanted to clap his hands over his ears. He wouldn’t listen. Lucifer didn’t want him as a vessel to give him a ‘ _gift,_ ’ as he’d said when first coming to Sam in that dream. No, Satan wanted to destroy the world. There would be no peace for Sam if he let that happen—if he _caused_ that to happen.

He lifted his chin, heart thumping erratically and lip slightly quivering. He refused to back down though. “Never.”

Lucifer’s shoulders sagged. “Well, we have time. You will say yes, Sam. That’s just the way it is.” With that, he turned and strode out of the room.

After shaking the stupor from his brain, Sam rushed to the door and tested the handle. It was locked again. He dropped his forehead against the wood and squeezed his eyes shut against a surge of emotion.

_Stay strong. You won’t give in. You can’t give in._

If God was listening, Sam prayed desperately for a way out of this mess. And though he was used to Dean coming to his rescue, his brother had absolutely no way of finding him. Sam was well and truly on his own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines directly from the episode, "Abandon All Hope." You'll recognize them; they're not mine. ;)

Castiel’s eyelids fluttered groggily as he tried to rise from the inky blackness he’d been swimming in. Why did he feel so heavy? It was almost like the time he’d dove down to the bottom of the Pacific, just to see the hidden wonders of the ocean deep his father had created. He hadn’t been in a vessel, of course, but the immense pressure and weight of the sea had still exerted tremendous force on his true form. This time was different though; pushing his way back to the surface was more difficult, more sluggish. Was he drowning? No, he wasn’t underwater. There was oxygen in his lungs, that much he could tell. Yet the crippling vice around the rest of his senses momentarily filled him with alarm. Where was he? What was wrong with his vessel?

He felt a gasp escape his lips with a sharp inhale, bringing more air into his mouth and nose, along with the scent of oil, ozone, and something akin to rotting fish. They were rather unpleasant, pungent aromas.

Finally, Castiel was able to pry his eyes open, and he blinked blearily at a smudged gray floor until his vision cleared enough for him to see the minute cracks, chips, and dirty streaks in the concrete. He found himself staring at a pair of black loafers, and realized they were his own feet. Strange, to have been unconscious standing up. Then he noticed the awkward bend in his elbows and the touch of cold steel cuffs around his wrists.

Lifting his head, Castiel shifted his weight, only to feel a heavy resistance. Two chains crisscrossed over his chest, pinning him to a wide concrete column from which another set of fetters were looped through iron rings. These shackles held his arms up and out next to his head, merely suspending them in a slack pose rather than stretching painfully taut.

At first Castiel was confused. Such methods should not be able to restrain him, and yet he could not move; when he tested the manacles, there was no give, for his strength had been reduced to that of a mortal’s. Upon closer inspection of the chains, he found a series of swirls and notches engraved in the metal. Castiel closed his eyes in understanding. Enochian sigils. And the irons across his chest bore his name. So not only was the warding inhibiting his powers, but _he_ was bound, his grace snapped into a tiny ball and locked down tight. But how…

“Rise and shine, sleepy head,” came a simpering voice.

Castiel jerked his head up, knocking his skull against the pillar as a petite brunette stepped out from the shadows in the corner. The demon called Meg. And then Castiel remembered being caught by Lucifer, trapped in a ring of holy fire and unable to help the Winchesters. He was no longer in the same building as before…where had he been moved?

Oh no, _Sam!_ He had been there too; Lucifer had captured him. Castiel suddenly yanked and pulled against the shackles, rattling the chains and rapping his knuckles against the concrete at his back, but to no avail. Where was Sam now? And Lucifer? If the Devil walked through that door in the next minute, would he be wearing the younger Winchester’s face?

Meg’s lips twitched with vulturine amusement as she watched his futile struggles, and so Castiel forced himself to go still. All he’d accomplished anyway was receiving a few painful score marks where the cuffs had bit into his wrists.

“What is this place?” he asked, reverting to a schooled tone and expression. With his grace shut down, he couldn’t sense his location on earth. The feeling of being both adrift and confined caused tendrils of disquietude to unfurl in his stomach, only amplified by the presence of the evil creature leering before him.

“Just a temporary dwelling,” she replied cheekily.

Castiel scanned the room, which was really more of an alcove, twenty-by-twenty feet. A large control panel protruded from the left wall, though it was faded and covered in dust. Whatever place this had been, it appeared not to have been used in quite some time. An arch directly ahead opened up into a wider space of more concrete, large cylindrical machines, and groups of piping conduits running up the walls like giant green inchworms. Pale light spilled in from above, and Castiel could see the bottom rims of rectangular-paned windows arching up into skylights.

His gaze slowly drifted back to the demon, who was pacing in front of him with that ecstatic glint in her eye. “You seem pleased,” he said, rolling his shoulder slightly in an effort to ease the ache in his wings. The binding sigils were putting pressure on his true form, not to mention he was a little singed from when Lucifer had snapped his fingers and extinguished the holy fire. For a brief moment, the archangel’s power had felt like throwing gasoline on a pyre, and Castiel had expected to die. To wake up alive, but imprisoned like this…well, he wasn’t sure which was worse.

Meg stopped at the dilapidated control panel, placing her palms against it. “We’re gonna win. Can you feel it? You cloud-hopping pansies lost the whole damn universe. Lucifer’s gonna take over Heaven.” She broke into a giddy grin. “We’re going to Heaven, Clarence.”

Castiel cocked his head. Lucifer had promised his followers admittance into Heaven? The idea was ludicrous. Why would the demons even care? Except to destroy that which they could never have. But did they truly believe that was the end goal, that Lucifer could—or _would_ —allow such depravity to enter Heaven, the archangel’s former _home_? Not even Castiel could wrap his head around that notion. But then, Lucifer was not called the Great Deceiver for nothing.

“Strange,” he said with a nonchalance that belied his current predicament. “Because I heard a different theory from a demon named Crowley.”

Meg’s face instantly changed, a flash of black darkening her eyes and stirring the abyss Castiel could see in the ruined shape of her soul. “You don’t know Crowley.”

“He believes,” Castiel continued, weighing his words carefully. “Lucifer is just using demons…to achieve an end, and that, once he does, he’ll destroy you all.”

Meg stalked closer. If Castiel could goad her further, perhaps she’d come near enough he could strike…though how he had no idea. He couldn’t smite with his powers fettered, and he couldn’t break free of the chains. What would Dean do in this situation? The Winchester always seemed to have a plan for getting out of tight spots, and he was a mere man without supernatural powers. Castiel just needed to think. Would Lucifer have entrusted the demon with the key to these chains?

“You’re wrong.” Though Meg’s face appeared calm, the ire brimming just under the surface wafted off in palpable waves that bristled Castiel’s invisible feathers. “Lucifer is the father of our race. Our creator. Your god may be a deadbeat. Mine—mine walks the earth.”

She leaned into him, so close the acrid stench of sulfur on her breath burned Castiel’s nostrils. He couldn’t move his arms enough to try grabbing her hair in order to crack her head against the concrete, or even to search her person for the keys. Which really left him with only one thing to do.

Hoisting himself up by the chains holding his wrists, Castiel planted both feet against her stomach and shoved. Meg let out a startled ‘oomph’ and flew backward to skid across the ground. Castiel dropped his legs back down. Well, that was something Dean definitely would’ve done. Castiel could almost hear the Winchester’s voice of approval, which gave the angel a smidgen of satisfaction—despite the fact that antagonizing one’s captors while helpless was not the wisest idea.

Meg scrambled to her feet, face red and livid. Her cheeks puffed, and she strode forward with murder in her eyes. Castiel braced himself for retaliation, but then an even stronger presence filled the room, and a calm voice reverberated with subtle power.

“Meg,” was all it said, and the demon stopped short, fury blowing her pupils wide.

Lucifer stepped inside the alcove, and Castiel felt a thrill of relief that Satan was still possessing his first vessel. But the ease was short-lived. Castiel had not been afraid of the pain a mere demon might inflict, but the Devil himself…that triggered a flicker of fear.

Lucifer gave Meg a considering look. “Leave.”

She appeared ready to argue, but quickly bit her tongue. Throwing one last glare at Castiel, the demon pivoted and stormed out. Castiel sighed; he was not looking forward to whatever revenge Meg devised. Still, the look of surprise on her face _had_ been somewhat worth it.

A shiver ran up his spine when Lucifer turned that appraising gaze on him. “You’re just full of pluck, aren’t you?”

Castiel wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer or not, but remained quiet anyway.

Lucifer wagged a finger at him. “You’re unique, Castiel. I bet Heaven never fully appreciated your talents.”

Castiel almost pointed out that he was part of the contingent of angels that laid siege to Hell to rescue the Righteous Man, that he had in fact been the one to first reach Dean Winchester in the bowels of the Pit and carry him to redemption, but he clamped his mouth shut before such vain self-adulation could pass his lips. He hadn’t been praised for his actions or valor by Heaven; no angels ever were. They were soldiers following orders, not for personal ambition or glory, but because that was who they were and what they did. Or, at least that was how it was supposed to be… Uriel and Zachariah had proved that notion wrong.

“Where’s Sam?” Castiel asked, wrenching his attention away from those dour thoughts and leveling an accusatory glare at Lucifer.

“Safe.” Lucifer tilted his head, brow creasing slightly. “You believe I would harm him? No, Castiel, I care about Sam. The things he’s done for me…he deserves honor and reward.” Lucifer began to pace, crossing his arms and tapping one finger on his elbow. “I’m curious about this devotion you have toward him. After all, Heaven sees him as an abomination, would just as soon destroy him as they would me.” Lucifer paused to consider him. “I’m sure you felt the same, initially. What changed your mind?”

Castiel shifted in discomfort under that penetrating gaze. “I—Heaven—was wrong. Sam is good. Despite the mistakes he’s made. But his heart is pure. No matter what Azazel did, in spite of the stain your demons tried to lay claim on him, Sam is a righteous man.”

Lucifer’s lips pursed in a commiserative moue. “Heaven will never see it that way. No matter how good Sam tries to be, he will never be admitted into Heaven when he dies. He will either be cast into the Pit, just as I was, or the angels will obliterate his soul completely, scattering it like stardust across the cosmos.”

Castiel’s chest constricted. No, he couldn’t let that happen. Sam deserved to go to Heaven when he died; he deserved to be with his brother in eternity. But what could Castiel possibly do to guarantee the security of the younger Winchester’s soul? He had neither the access nor clout to ensure a place for Sam in Heaven.

“You know, Castiel,” Lucifer spoke up. “The only way to protect Sam is to join me. Once he says yes to being my vessel, he will never die. I will never let the scourge and torment of Hell touch him. But Heaven will still be after us both. And you. Join us, Castiel. Stand by your friend.”

Castiel’s expression hardened. “And Dean Winchester? You will never convince Sam to turn his back on his brother.” Maybe when the Winchesters had been fighting there’d been a chance Sam would give in, as had happened in the future Zachariah had sent Dean to. But the older Winchester had already affected change by reconciling with his brother. As long as those two were united, nothing, not even Heaven and Hell, could stand in their way. Castiel believed that. Had to believe that.

Lucifer spread his arms in a mollifying gesture. “Dean Winchester can be spared. If Michael does not take his vessel, there will be no need for Sam to hurt him.”

“But then the rest of the world will be destroyed.”

Lucifer shrugged. “What’s so great about this world anyway? Disease, famine, death, all these existed long before I was released. Tragedy is nothing new, Castiel.” He canted his head thoughtfully. “Is it truly the world you wish to protect, or the Winchesters? Because if you join me, Sam will be safe…and Dean Winchester we can work on.”

Castiel gritted his teeth; the Devil’s promises were as hollow and carious as white-washed tombs—attractive on the surface but rotten to the core. He lifted his chin. “I will never join you.”

Lucifer was silent for a long moment, and then he sighed. “What will it take to convince you?” he asked, seemingly to himself. In the next instant, he surged forward and clapped a hand over Castiel’s head. Castiel jerked in surprise and alarm, thinking Lucifer meant to smite him into oblivion with the power only an archangel possessed. He’d been ripped apart this way once before, and the thought of going through it again sent terror flooding through him.

But rather than the soul-splitting fire that would shred his grace into slivers, he felt a force push its way into his mind. Castiel tried to recoil as he realized what was happening, but he was physically trapped against the pillar, and his mental wards were like paper against the sudden onslaught of the archangel’s will. Lucifer’s presence filled his mind, an invasion that made Castiel shudder under the touch. He tried to draw deeper within himself to escape it.

A light laugh echoed through the haze of his thoughts, and that presence pushed further. Castiel immediately shielded his knowledge of the Winchesters; he would not betray them by giving Lucifer ammunition to use against the brothers. He grouped thoughts of Bobby Singer into a safe place as well. Anyone and anything that could be traced back to Sam and Dean, Castiel erected a wall around. But in his frantic haste, he’d failed to protect the parts of _him_ , which was what Lucifer had gone after.

Unbidden, memories of Castiel’s ‘re-education’ in Heaven flooded his mind. He flinched at the pain they evoked, both physical and mental: whip-cracks like lightning spearing his grace, carrying the horrific images and sensations of humanity’s depravity and capacity for cruelty—bloody battlefields, murder, rape. Castiel had been made to witness and experience every moment of torment…from the perspectives of both victims _and_ perpetrators. He’d felt his body pierced by blades, burned by fire, flesh torn off. The physical torment had been bad enough, but worse was the horror every brutalized human felt, which had been woven into Castiel’s consciousness. He shared their pain and suffering.

Yet those did not even compare to when he’d been forced into the minds of those reveling in the torture. Their rage, rapacious hunger for violence, the sheer glee they felt at a fellow human being’s screams…these things were not meant for an angel to feel. It had made Castiel sick, and all too willing to fall back in line, just to make it stop—for both him and humanity.

He was bombarded with them again now, drowning in the terror, choking on bile, and lost among the agony of a million clamoring voices until he forgot his own name. That was when Lucifer’s voice broke through the haze like a balm.

“Oh, brother, the suffering you’ve been made to endure… I understand you, Castiel. You do not desire war. You thought Heaven would bring about Paradise, an end to all this death and savagery. But don’t you see? They are _agents_ of it. They very thing angels proclaim to abhor is exactly what they themselves yearn for.”

Castiel wanted to struggle against the Devil’s presence and seductive words, but the wretched truth was he clung to the warm aura that offered to soothe the frayed edges of his sanity.

“You were bred to be a soldier, Castiel. But there can be no soldiers without war.”

Castiel couldn’t contain a whimper, curled in on himself as the pain that hemmed him in threatened to break him all over again. But then the sensations were being pushed back, and a gentle caress was smoothing over the parts of Castiel’s flayed grace. Lucifer crooned softly, comfortingly, as he snuffed out the heinous memories, sealing them away to a place Castiel couldn’t access. His mind gradually settled under a dark, anesthetized curtain.

The echo of his vessel’s erratic heartbeat thrummed in his ears, the physical form undergoing immense strain that mirrored the internal. He was barely aware of Lucifer’s presence still sifting through his mind, until the archangel spoke up with an intrigued lilt.

“Well, isn’t _this_ interesting.”

Castiel felt a tickle as Lucifer teased a thread of memory loose, rubbing it between amorphous fingers. He couldn’t see what Lucifer was looking at though, and then suddenly the Devil’s presence retreated, and Castiel found himself back in his vessel, panting heavily.

Lucifer stepped back, a small smile curving his mouth. “Thank you, Castiel. I believe this will be very helpful.”

With that, he turned and departed, leaving Castiel sagging in the chains and utterly spent.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Sam had lost track of how much time he’d spent pacing; there was no way to count the hours or days in this windowless room. He’d discovered his phone had been taken while he was unconscious—made sense, but he’d been hoping for some measure of stupid oversight from the demons. Even if he wouldn’t have been able to get a signal, it would’ve been nice to know what time it was…how long it’d been since Lucifer had snatched him up from Carthage. All he really had to go on was his level of fatigue, which was increasing exponentially now that the adrenaline and terror from facing Lucifer was abating. He stayed away from the bed though, not wanting to succumb to sleep and be caught off guard if— _when_ —the Devil returned. But resisting the tug of exhaustion was getting harder.

Sam hoped Dean was okay, that he was on his way back to Bobby’s. Those two would need each other now. Maybe they’d pack up and head out to start that base at Camp Chitaqua Dean had seen in the future. The thought of both their stubborn, curmudgeonly personalities trying to marshal and run a resistance movement almost made Sam chuckle. He knew Dean had been appalled to find out he was some kind of rebellion general, a ‘real dick’ his brother had said of himself. Sam had actually been curious about their future counterparts, but the sparse details Dean had shared quickly snuffed out his inquiries. Sam had given into Lucifer. Cas had become human. Bobby…Bobby hadn’t been there at all.

But things had changed. Dean and Sam had reunited, and armed with that glimpse of foresight, Sam was more determined than ever not to surrender. Maybe the apocalyptic future was inevitable, but the small details could be different. They already were. So, yeah, Dean and Bobby would be fine.

Except…Dean wasn’t the type to let go. And while Sam wanted to find comfort and hope for himself in his older brother’s indomitable resolve, it also scared him. After all, the last time Dean had done something drastic to save Sam, he’d sold his soul. That probably wasn’t an option this time around, since Hell’s big boss man was the one who wanted Sam in the first place, but there were other recourses Dean might take…

Sam wrenched his mind away from that line of thought. No, Dean would never. He’d find some other way to ice the Devil, and in the meantime, all Sam had to do was not say yes. Simple.

So why did it not feel that easy?

He rubbed his face. A growing headache pulsed behind his eyes, and his legs were beginning to feel like jello. Maybe he could just sit down…

He sank onto the plush bed, but ended up leaning all the way back. The mattress gave under his weight to mold around his aching body, and a moan of relief mumbled in his throat. His eyelids slid shut, and the next thing Sam knew, he’d fallen into an abyss of dreamless sleep.

 

He woke with a start later, not sure what had set his nerves on edge. It was a familiar, prickling feeling up the back of his neck, yet one he couldn’t place. So he didn’t move right away, but instead stayed nestled in the bed, curled on his side and feeling more comfortable than he cared to admit. After a prolonged moment, however, he realized that the spot on the mattress at his back was slightly dipped. Jerking upright, Sam whipped his head over his shoulder.

Lucifer sat on the other side, a creepy smile on his face. “Sleep well?”

Sam scrambled off the bed. “You get your jollies watching me sleep?” he snapped, terror making him brash. Now he remembered where he’d felt that niggle before—when Lucifer had invaded his dream pretending to be Jess. Except this time it wasn’t a dream; Lucifer was really here.

Lucifer shrugged one shoulder. “You seemed at peace. I know that’s a rarity for you.”

Sam gritted his teeth. Nightmares were part of the hunter’s job description, though Sam had more than his fair share. Not as bad as Dean though, since he’d gotten back from Hell, and that knowledge kept Sam from complaining. Besides, half of his nightmares were the result of his own poor choices.

His gaze sharpened on Lucifer, and his brow furrowed. He’d gotten a rather up-close look at the archangel—more than he’d wanted—and he could see red and white patches of skin on his face. The cracked and peeling flesh looked like he’d been struck with leprosy or some kind of decomposing bacteria.

Lucifer seemed to notice what Sam was staring at, and reached up to lightly touch his neck. “Erm, unpleasant, isn’t it?”

Sam swallowed hard. “What’s wrong with you?”

“As I told you before, Nick was never meant to be a permanent vessel. The power of an archangel is not easy to contain.”

Sam’s face must have showed a measure of distress, because Lucifer continued gently, “You have nothing to worry about, Sam. You are strong and able to contain me without…” He burst his hands apart in silent pantomime of an explosion. “You are my true vessel, after all.”

“So…you’re eventually going to…burn out?”

“Burn out this vessel, yes.” His gaze flickered astutely. “Now, Sam, I know what you’re thinking. But no, losing my vessel won’t hurt me. It may set my plans back a bit…” Lucifer shrugged nonchalantly. “So it really would make things easier the sooner you say yes.”

Sam stiffened and lifted his chin. “What do you think?”

“Don’t you want to release your burdens?” Lucifer angled a knowing look at him. “You carry so much for one so young.”

Sam clenched his fists. “Whose fault is that? Azazel feeding me demon blood, killing my mom, my family becoming hunters, all that was because of _you_!”

“Everything was to prepare you for this moment. Don’t you see, Sam? You’re special. Everything you’ve been through, you survived, and it’s made you stronger.”

Sam looked away. He had believed that, before. Believed he could use his curse for the greater good, to make all the pain and suffering it caused his family worth it. And what good had it done in the end? He’d set Lucifer free and started the Apocalypse. ‘Stronger,’ right. Sam was pathetic, ever the disappointment and screwup.

“I’m not evil,” he whispered to the floor, barely aware he spoke aloud. Tainted, sure, tarnished by the demon blood he hadn’t chosen as a baby, and then foolishly embraced as an adult. But he _wanted_ to be good.

Lucifer heaved a sigh and glanced almost wistfully at the books on the shelf. “You think I’m evil.”

Sam blinked. “Yeah. You’re _the Devil_.”

“A designation given to me by Heaven when I wouldn’t conform. Surely you know how wrong—and hurtful—labels can be.” Lucifer rose to his feet. “How many times have angels called you an abomination? The boy with demon blood. A freak. But that’s not all you are, Sam.”

A lump had begun forming in his throat, swelling tighter with each barbed name. No, he _was_ more than that, more than the curse thrust upon him as an infant, more than his past mistakes and weaknesses.

“You see, Sam,” Lucifer cajoled, stalking around the foot of the bed. “We’re both just misunderstood.”

“You want to destroy the world. Don’t try to sell me on how that’s anything but evil.” His shoulders were bunched with tension to the point they cramped. He wasn’t quite afraid of Lucifer hurting him; besides, if the archangel could just torture him into saying yes, surely he would’ve done it by now. But a coerced permission couldn’t really be one, right? No, Sam was more afraid of his own inability to resist the Devil. And he hadn’t even been in Lucifer’s clutches that long.

“How is tearing down a corrupt and depraved system a bad thing?” Lucifer countered. “I didn’t create the way things are, Sam, just as you didn’t create the circumstances you find yourself in now. But here we are, two peas ready-made to fit in a pod. So alike it’s almost poetic.”

“I am nothing like you,” Sam spat.

“No?” Lucifer’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, I think we’re more alike than you realize. Both our fathers had plans for our lives, wanted us to follow them to the letter. But you and I wanted more. The world was at our fingertips, and all we wanted was to make the most of it.” Lucifer paused. “And then family came and took it all away.”

Images of Stanford flashed through Sam’s mind: answering a question in a lecture hall that impressed the professor, pulling all-nighters in the library, sitting in a coffee shop with Jess and imagining how he would finally propose, how romantic he wanted to make it. And then the memories were washed away in a wave of molten fire, Jess’s stunned face staring down at Sam from a ceiling, her last breath a stutter that splashed her lips with crimson. Dean pulling him away…

_No!_ Jess’s death was not Dean’s fault. He hadn’t brought the demon with him…right? It was just a horrible, tragic coincidence. And yet, Sam had to wonder…if Dean hadn’t shown up that weekend, would Jess still be alive? Would she and Sam be married with kids? If Sam had never gotten back into hunting, would he never have discovered his powers and demon blood?

He shook his head fervently to dispel such ludicrous thoughts, which sent a spike of pain across his entire head. Wincing, he reached up to hold his temple.

Lucifer made a thoughtful noise in his throat. “Hm, you should eat something to help with that headache.” He turned and walked over to the table spread of untouched fruit and veggies. “Would you like something different? I thought you appreciated healthy food, but I understand you’re under a lot of stress, so perhaps you would prefer, what is it, ‘comfort food’?”

Sam snorted. “I’m not touching anything from you.”

Lucifer tipped his head back with a small laugh. “I have no reason to poison you, Sam. You’re an honored guest here, remember?”

“Guest? Guests can leave whenever they want.”

“Mmm…fair point. Still, you should eat. You need to keep up your strength.”

Sam’s stomach rumbled in blatant revolt to his intended hunger strike, and he wrapped his arms around his abdomen. He’d threatened to kill himself before allowing Lucifer to possess him, yet the Devil had said he would just bring him back to life. But if Sam made himself weak and sick, would that make him less appealing as a vessel? Somehow he doubted that, but he had so few ways of resisting, he was grasping at any pathetic attempt he could in order to fight back.

Lucifer watched him for several long moments, like a cat that knew it could snap a baby bird’s head off with the speed of a cobra, but chose not to. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, calculating, “your appetite is leaning toward something a little…tangier.”

Sam’s brows knit together in confusion.

Lucifer took a deep breath, chest expanding with the inhalation. “Hm, it’s been a while since you’ve tasted demon blood, hasn’t it?”

Ice washed through Sam’s veins. Oh, _hell_ no! He backed up into the wall, shoulder bumping the gilded painting and knocking it off-kilter.

Lucifer quirked a bemused look at him. “Why do you resist it? Didn’t you enjoy how it made you feel strong, powerful? You would’ve developed some impressive skills by the time you were juiced up enough to kill Lilith. Don’t you miss that?”

Sam shook his head fervently enough to give himself whiplash. “You want to try to convince me you’re not evil one minute, and then the next you’re offering _that_?”

Lucifer sighed. “Once again, you’re letting others’ preconceived ideas about good and evil dictate your moral compass. How can gaining the power to destroy demons be wrong?”

Sam fumbled for a response. A small voice in the back of his mind whispered that if he accepted demon blood now, maybe he’d have a fighting chance against Lucifer. Not enough to take out the Devil, but surely enough to get away? He could escape, get back to Dean before his brother did something stupid…but then what would Dean say when Sam showed up intoxicated with demon blood and psychic powers? Would he finally admit they were useful if they helped Sam escape Lucifer’s grasp? No, more likely Dean would rip him a new one for falling off the wagon.

“It’s…not that way.” Sam cringed at how feeble his response sounded. With his back to the wall, he felt trapped. What if Lucifer forced him? One drop, and Sam knew he’d be lost to that power again.

“Hm, because others don’t approve? Like your brother?”

His jaw tightened. Was Lucifer reading his mind, or was it just that damn obvious? Whispers of how Sam used to feel about using his powers filtered through his mind. He had at one time believed them to be a good thing; he’d been able to exorcise demons without killing the host, had been able to _kill_ demons. Dean didn’t see it that way though. That fight in Ruby’s motel room still haunted Sam, the way Dean had called him a monster, and then how he threw Dad’s words back in his face.

_“If you walk out that door, don’t you ever come back!”_

He’d repented, dammit! Sam had admitted his mistake and was determined to be clean, but then in Colorado when they’d confronted War, Dean thought Sam, after everything, was still jonesing for demon blood. That he hadn’t learned his lesson, despite all the reassurances Sam had tried to give. That case had been the breaking point for Sam, and he’d walked away. Yeah, because he said he hadn’t trusted himself going after demons…and Dean had agreed with him, said he spent too much time worrying about Sam as it was. The way his brother didn’t trust him…it almost made Sam want to say, ‘screw it all,’ and take that hit.

But he wouldn’t. Sam would do his older brother proud, for _once_.

“Just stop it! You’re not trying to convince me that something is right or wrong, or that it’s all a gray area. You’re just trying to manipulate me so you can get what _you_ want.”

Lucifer pursed his lips and cocked his head a fraction. “You’re right, I have my own agenda. But that doesn’t mean what I say isn’t true or valid. I’m not lying to you, Sam. Not like your friends have lied to you.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about who really let you out of the panic room that night.”

Sam’s brow furrowed, and he began shifting his weight nervously. Something about the gleam in Satan’s eye sent a chill down his spine. “What do you mean? One of your demons…”

“Oh, no, Sam. That wasn’t my doing. It was Heaven. Angels.” Lucifer let a pregnant pause hang in the air. “Castiel, in fact.”

Sam felt as though he’d been sucker punched in the gut. “What? No…”

“It’s true, I’m afraid.” Lucifer stalked back toward him again. “I saw it in ‘Cas’s’ memory. He was the one who unlocked the panic room.”

The floor seemed to drop out from under him. _Cas_ had let him free? Knowing what Sam intended to do, _how_ he planned to do it…after Cas had told Sam he was glad the Winchester had ‘ceased his extracurricular activities’ with demon blood. Angels had told Dean they’d wanted Sam to stop, and in the end they’d _condoned_ it? No, that couldn’t be right.

“You’re lying.”

“I told you, Sam, I will never lie to you.” Lucifer smiled sympathetically. “You see? If I’m evil, then so is Heaven. I wager they might even be worse. At least I have never hidden behind treachery and pretense.”

Sam wanted to argue, but then he recalled Samhain, and how angels had been willing to sacrifice an entire town to protect a Seal. That had not been righteous or moral. Except…Heaven hadn’t really wanted the Seals saved. After everything, after all of the angels’ speeches about necessary casualties in order to save Seals, in order to prevent Lucifer from rising altogether…they’d _helped_ engineer it, ensured that it would be done. That Sam would be the one to do it. He’d thought he was doing something good, that killing Lilith would stop the Apocalypse. He’d been tricked by Ruby, yeah. He’d trusted her and she screwed him over, but she was a demon. What added insult to injury was that Heaven, the _good guys_ , had done the same.

Lucifer steepled his palms. “Well, I can see you need some time to think. Finding out all those preconceived notions of what it means to be good that you’ve been trying so desperately hard to follow are a fallacy…” He trailed off, leaving the thought unfinished, but then he didn’t need to voice the rest. Sam’s mind was already whirling. He heard the door snick shut as Lucifer left, leaving Sam alone once again.

He sank despondently onto the edge of the bed, the sting of betrayal and hopelessness hooking claws into his heart. He wanted to believe Lucifer was lying, that the Devil was just trying to manipulate him, yet Sam knew with a sinking feeling that it was true. No demon could get past the warding in Bobby’s house. Ruby had said so. But an angel… And _Cas_ of all of them.

All the arguments and disagreements Sam had experienced with the angel came flooding back, and with them bitter resentment. How dare Castiel be angry with Sam for decisions he _helped_ ordain? He was in on it all along!

No, Cas had rebelled against Heaven to help Dean stop Sam. He’d saved them from Zachariah, warded them against all angels. So, even if he had been in on it, he was working with them now. Yet what did that even matter? It was too little, too late.

Sam lay back on the bed, curling up on his side, and buried his face in the pillows.


	4. Chapter 4

Dawn bled blue and lavender into a sky by the time Dean stumbled onto the single-lane road that wound back into Carthage, now a ghost town since all its residents were occupying a mass grave in the fields he’d just come from. The Colt dangled loosely in his lax hand. He wasn’t expecting to be attacked, not anymore. There was a profound emptiness in the air, not like the heavy augur of foreboding that’d hung over the place when they’d first arrived, hinting at something sinister lurking in the shadows. No, this sense of forsakenness was like the exhalation after a brutal storm that had left nothing but complete and utter destruction in its wake. Dean now traced its footprints of ruin, the only living soul around for miles that still drew breath.

He staggered through an intersection, trying to find his way back to the Impala. Why couldn’t he remember where he’d parked her? _Next to the movie theater_ , he grumbled to himself. How hard could it be to find one stupid building with a bright red marquee on top?

His boots fell like lead with each trudging step forward, the resulting vibrations sending spikes of pain through his lower back, which was sorely bruised from taking the brunt of impact with that tree Lucifer had thrown him into. Dean dropped his gaze to the gun in his hand. Why hadn’t it worked? It was the goddamn Colt! It was supposed to kill any and every monster under the sun.

Dean arched his arm back and tossed the pistol as hard as he could. It clattered across asphalt on the other side of the street to slide under a delivery truck. Rage popped like a bubble inside him, and in the next second, Dean had scooped up a crowbar from a pile of trash and started tearing down the sidewalk, smashing storefront windows, whacking sideview mirrors off cars, and clubbing anything and everything that stood in his path. He cursed the Colt with the first strike, then the Devil on the next two, then angels, then Cas. Where the hell had their winged friend gone anyway? Back on his stupid search-for-God tour? Or maybe he’d realized this whole plan was crap, futile, and had run for the hills.

Dean swung with the force of a wrecking ball, denting someone’s Lexus. Not that the poor bastard who owned it would ever drive again. “Screw you, Cas! You hear me!”

Pressure closed around his chest and squeezed, but Dean ignored the feeling, instead pouring every ounce of anger and grief into vandalizing the next window. It was easier to be furious with the missing angel, to blame him for abandoning them rather than consider the more likely scenario—Cas was dead. Just like Ellen and Jo. And now Sam was gone too…

Glass shattered and sprinkled the sidewalk like crystalline tears, crying in a way Dean couldn’t allow himself to. It was over. They’d lost. The world would end, either because Lucifer was unstoppable or because Sam would eventually say yes. And that future Dean had seen when Zachariah sent him through a time warp…that would come true. But worse than knowing that he’d failed to save the planet was knowing he’d failed to protect his little brother.

Dean stormed around another corner and came to an abrupt stop as the air was punched from his lungs. His fingers went slack, and the crowbar clanked on the sidewalk. The minimart stood across the street, windows blown out, scorched veins spread across the walls like the shadow prints of burnt blood streaked across a windshield. Broken bits of glass and singed paper littered the sidewalk around the demolished building. The last of Dean’s adrenaline evaporated at the sight, leaving in its wake only the piercing pang of Ellen and Jo’s death. Two more people he couldn’t save. He wondered with a strange detachment if he should worry about the bodies…vengeful spirits and all that. Except they’d been burned, so that was taken care of. They deserved a hunter’s funeral, but Dean couldn’t give them that. They’d died heroes though. That had to count for something.

But it didn’t, because he’d failed to kill Lucifer. Sam was gone. All of this had been for nothing, their deaths in vain.

Dean clenched his fists as anger bubbled anew. He wanted to track down the nearest demon and demand to know where Lucifer was. He’d pull out the torture moves from Hell, no hesitation. And if that demon didn’t know, he’d find the next one. And the next. If it took a trail of dead bodies across state lines to find that son-of-a-bitch, Dean would do it.

_And then what?_ a small part of him scoffed. _Waltz right in like you did here? ‘Cause that worked out so well this time around._

But what other option was there? Crawl into a hole somewhere and wait out the end of the world? Yeah, that wasn’t gonna happen. No, Dean needed a plan. He was about to turn on his heel and resume searching for the Impala, when a low growl raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Dean stiffened ramrod straight. _No way_ …

The guttural rumble issued again, and he shifted slowly, gaze scanning the blackened shell of the minimart. He heard the crunch of broken glass and saw a puff of hot breath billow in the air just outside the door. Treacly black fluid dripped steadily onto the sidewalk from an invisible source, and though Dean couldn’t see the hellhound, he could tell by the fast-paced huffs that the beast was panting. His hand went to the back of his waistband—and grasped emptiness. Dammit, why’d he have to throw the Colt away? The only other weapon he had on him was Ruby’s knife, and he did _not_ want to get that up close and personal with a hellhound in order to use it.

The creature snarled again, and a piece of loose poster board skidded forward, an inky paw print smeared across some band’s headshot. Dean pivoted and ran back around the corner. A bloodcurdling howl sounded on his heels, followed by the heavy chuffs of a hound in pursuit. The thing was wounded though, and slagging a bit. Dean knew it would hunt him to the ends of the earth unless he finished it first.

He barreled down the street, head frantically whipping around in search of that delivery truck. There were three parked in front of various storefronts. Brown, it’d been brown.

Gnashing teeth echoed behind him, too close for comfort, and Dean spurred himself faster. His lungs burned with exertion and his back screamed, but he couldn’t stop. Slow down and he was dead.

He spotted the truck a few yards away, and gave one last burst of energy. Leaping over a dolly, Dean twisted midair to half-fall on the ground, arms scraping across gravel as he scrambled underneath the truck’s chassis. A split moment later, the entire vehicle jolted when something large and heavy plowed into it. Hot, putrid breath billowed in Dean’s face as the dog stuck its muzzle in the gap between ground and frame, jaws snapping viciously.

Dean shimmied toward the other end where he spotted a silver glint in the gutter. _Yes!_ Snatching up the Colt, he rolled over and took aim at the spot that was spewing spit and black ichor. The gun cracked, and a high-pitched yelp responded. The truck settled as the hellhound jerked away, but Dean could still see drops of blood flinging around as the wounded animal flailed. Heart jackhammering in his chest, Dean scooted forward until he had better line of sight. He fired again. This time the hellhound squealed and thumped on the ground.

Dean edged his way out from under the truck, gun still aimed. Hot puffs of breath continued to waft from a mouth resting near the ground, and two thicker streams of black fluid were oozing from a few inches higher. The hellhound whimpered, but apparently wasn’t in any shape to get up. Dean stepped forward cautiously, fear making him angry, and anger making him see red. He lifted the Colt and shot again, then again. Three successive pops rattled his ears like thunder, and when the ringing finally stopped, he was plunged into deafening silence once more. Oily puddles exuded from multiple points now, quickly pooling into one mess beneath the hound’s corpse.

“At least you were good for something,” he muttered, glancing at the smoking Colt. Though he was still angry, he wasn’t going to throw it away again.

Taking a deep breath, Dean lifted his gaze to scan the street, and found himself standing in front of a bar, of all places. He knew he should get out of town, but after that adrenaline rush, he definitely needed something to take the edge off. He tucked the Colt into his jacket and strode inside. The door squeaked, like the swinging doors of a saloon, and the musty smell of beer and corn chips greeted him like an old friend. God knew he didn’t have many of those left.

Dean went around behind the counter and pulled out one of the good whiskey bottles. It wasn’t like anyone was gonna mind. Popping the top off, he poured a generous helping into a glass and quickly knocked it back. Then he poured a second. The world was going to hell in a hand basket, and Dean Winchester was doing what he did best: drowning his woes in alcohol.

He was _not_ accepting defeat though. He just needed a minute to clear his head, think of his next move. But who was he kidding? How was he supposed to stop the Apocalypse? His future self hadn’t been able to. Dean had thought maybe, just maybe, if he and Sam stayed together, they’d find a way to beat this. But that had gone down the crapshoot, just like everything else in their lives. The Colt was their last shot.

Unless… what if there was still a way Dean _could_ stop it? Maybe not save the world, but he could save Sam. And after all, wasn’t that really what his life had always been about? Protecting Sammy.

His gut twisted into knots, and he gulped down that second glass of whiskey to help settle it. It didn’t, but his nerves steeled a fraction. It was a harebrained, stupid, reckless move, but then, so was most of the plans out of the Winchester playbook. And when it came down to it, sometimes you just had to choose between the lesser of two really shitty options.

Squaring his jaw, Dean reached under the counter for the cordless phone attached to a landline. He nearly slumped in relief when he got a dial tone, and punched in a number.

“Hello?” a gruff voice answered after the first ring, tone simultaneously suspicious and desperately hopeful.

“Bobby,” he said around a sandpaper throat, and took another sip of liquor.

“ _Dean_. What the hell happened, boy? I’ve been worried sick over here. The news is reporting a state of emergency for that whole county from a massive storm system that dropped over a dozen tornados on people’s heads. Where are you?”

Dean ran a hand down his face. “Still in Carthage. No tornados here.” He glanced out the window to make sure, but the sky was deceptively clear. “So, uh, guess Death isn’t wasting any time.”

There was a pregnant pause on the other end. “So he was released?”

“Yeah.” Dean let out a half-delirious snort. “I failed, Bobby. Ellen and Jo are dead, and it’s the end of the world.” His voice sounded hollow, belying the heart-wrenching emotions tearing him up on the inside, but he couldn’t let them get to him. He still had a job to do.

He thought he heard the creak of Bobby’s wheelchair in the background before the older man spoke again, his own voice hoarse with emotion. “So you didn’t find Lucifer?”

“Oh, we did. The Colt didn’t work on the son-of-a-bitch. I shot him, Bobby, I did, right between the eyes. He popped right back up like a damn daisy!”

There was another moment of silence and slight squeak again. “Okay, okay, just calm down. We’ll figure something out; we always do. You boys just get back here to regroup, before the National Guard shows up to find an entire town massacred.”

Dean figured if the surrounding area was dealing with twisters, it might take the feds a while, not that he planned on sticking around much longer anyway. “Bobby…” his voice cracked. “Sam…Sam’s gone. Lucifer got him.”

A sharp inhale crackled over the line. For several long moments, neither spoke, and Dean sipped at his drink, trying to work up the nerve to do what needed to be done. He was crappy at goodbyes though.

Bobby finally cleared his throat. “Sam’s a tough kid. What about Cas? He might have some ideas.”

“Don’t know.” He didn’t want to say it, but the weight in his tone conveyed what he really thought.

“Alright, well, you just get back here then, ya hear?”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, but there’s something I gotta do.”

“Don’t be doing anything stupid now,” Bobby warned.

_Can’t promise that_. “I got one shot left at fixing this,” he replied, begging for Bobby to understand. “It…it won’t save the world like we were hoping, but…but it’ll be better than the future that’s in store if I don’t.”

“Dean, stop and think about this!”

“Take cover, Bobby. Maybe you’ll survive this.” _Don’t know if you’d want to_.

Dean hung up before the older man’s pleas could further tear his heart apart. A centimeter of amber liquid sloshed in the bottom of his glass, and he quickly drained it. Then he poured one more shot, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth as the liquor burned going down. He had to do this. For Sam.

Lifting his head toward the ceiling, Dean raised his voice and barked out, “I pray to thee Zachariah douche-bag to get your feathery ass down here. You hear me, you son-of-a-bitch? I’m ready!”

A flutter of wings sent a puff of air against Dean’s cheek, and suddenly Zachariah was standing on the other side of the counter, suit and tie pressed like a used car salesman.

“Dean, Dean, Dean. It’s about time. You really know how to play hard-to-get, you know that?”

Dean had to fight the urge to wipe that smarmy look off the bastard’s face. “Did you know what Lucifer had planned here?” he demanded.

“You mean that Death was sealed under William Jasper’s farm?” Zachariah shrugged. “Yes.”

Dean felt his ire begin to bubble over again. “You son-of-a-bitch. How many people did you sacrifice this time? Why weren’t you winged bastards guarding the place? All this talk about defeating Lucifer, and you’re just letting him run wild!” For a minute, Dean’s fingers twitched toward his jacket to draw the Colt. It would probably work on _this_ douchebag.

“ _You’re_ letting him run wild.” Zachariah jabbed a finger at his face. “If you had said yes from the beginning, Death wouldn’t have needed to been released.”

Dean swallowed hard. He had a lot of regrets, but saying no to dick angels who’d jumpstarted the Apocalypse wasn’t yet one of them. Really, he was only doing this now because of his brother.

Zachariah glanced around the empty bar with mild detachment. “But I take it you’ve seen enough death and destruction. I admit, I’m surprised this little blip even fazed you, considering the future I sent you to didn’t.”

Dean flexed his fingers into fists. “Lucifer has Sam.”

Zachariah arched an unimpressed brow. “Ah, so that’s what it took. Typical,” he snorted in disgust. “That’s all you care about, your poor little, demon-mongrel brother.”

“You want me to say yes or not?” Dean snapped. “Shut your mouth about Sam.”

“You called me, didn’t you?” With a smug grin, the angel clapped his hands together. “So let’s get this show on the road.”

Dean shot a hand up. “Wait. If I do this, if I say yes, Michael goes after Lucifer right now, right this friggin’ minute. We gank his ass in the vessel he’s currently wearing…so Sam doesn’t have a chance to say yes.”

Zachariah rolled his eyes. “Fine by us. Lucifer will be easier to defeat in his weaker vessel anyway.” He reached across the counter for the whiskey bottle and refilled Dean’s empty glass. “So, what’s the magic word?”

Dean’s heart lurched and his stomach quivered, much like when he’d first sold his soul in exchange for Sam’s life. But overlaying that fear was the staunch resoluteness that had driven him then as much as it did now. He had no idea what would happen to Sam, if his brother would even survive the Armageddon angels were about to rain down on humanity. But at least he’d have a chance. And at least he wouldn’t become the thing he feared, the thing they all feared.

Dean drew his shoulders back, told the last of his doubts to shove it, and lifted his chin. “Yes.”


	5. Chapter 5

There had been many moments throughout human history when Castiel had remained in a stationary, watchful stance. After God had created the earth, Castiel had flown down from Heaven to alight on the highest mountain where he could take in the glory of his father’s work. For days he had stood on that peak, drinking in the beauty of the planet. Then after God had made humans, Castiel’s curiosity had driven him to take up perches above villages, simply to observe. Of course, the novelty had eventually worn off—particularly after his superiors’ constant badgering that Castiel focus on his duty rather than the ‘hairless apes.’ Yet even as a solider of Heaven, he was used to standing by while rigidly awaiting orders.

His current situation of inactivity, however, was proving exhausting, both mentally and physically. Lucifer had visited a few more times, each instance forcing his way into Castiel’s mind and scouring his memories as one would flip through a book. Every time, Castiel managed to protect any knowledge about the Winchesters, but then, Lucifer never seemed interested in that anyway.

The archangel hadn’t called up memories of Castiel’s re-education again, which Castiel supposed was a mercy, and the gratefulness he felt for it galled him. Really, Lucifer wasn’t _hurting_ him. He just kept going further back, all the way to the dawn of mankind when Heaven was in an uproar, Lucifer against Michael. The fights they’d engaged in had been terrible, shaking the foundations of Heaven itself. Castiel remembered cowering in fear one day in the great hall while Lucifer and Michael duked it out. Archangel power was terrible when unleashed, violent and unbridled like a hurricane. They could have easily killed a lesser angel by accident that day.

In truth, Castiel didn’t remember that time period too clearly for some reason. He wondered if Lucifer was manipulating his mind somehow, constructing images that weren’t accurate. And yet, it wasn’t as though the archangel was trying to paint himself the righteous victim; oh, he had his temper. But Lucifer had spent a great deal of time focusing on Michael and Raphael, highlighting their abhorrent behavior. The Devil picked through Castiel’s memory, stirring up long-forgotten encounters with the ruling archangels and their loyal subordinates. Some of the things his brothers did to one another in the name of Heaven, under _orders_ …it was cruel and base. Castiel had never met God, but he was beginning to see that his father had been absent a great deal longer than he’d realized. And the more Castiel watched his family and the home he loved fall into ruin, the more confused and shaken his torn heart became.

In the times between Lucifer’s visits, Castiel tugged against the chains until his wrists bled, but they never budged. Neither could he a spot a weakness in this stone alcove he might exploit. Castiel wondered if Sam was being held in the same facility. Lucifer’s presence suggested that he must be, for Castiel doubted Satan would want to be far from his vessel. Castiel couldn’t imagine what Lucifer was doing to the young Winchester, the similar mind games he must be playing. As an angel, he needed permission to possess Sam, but the methods Lucifer might employ to gain such acquiescence worried Castiel. He prayed Sam was strong enough to resist, even as he realized that no one could endure forever. And rescue was highly unlikely. In a way, Castiel almost craved Lucifer’s attention, because whenever he saw Nick’s vessel, it meant Sam was still safe.

It had actually been a while since Lucifer’s last visit, during which the archangel had replayed Gabriel’s death, focusing on Castiel’s grief at losing another beloved brother. Castiel hadn’t meant to, but the memory stirred up a flash of a warehouse in Ohio and the Winchesters facing down the Trickster, aka Gabriel. That was the first time Lucifer had let his mask slip, and Castiel caught a mix of surprise, relief, and anger boiling underneath. Lucifer had abruptly ceased their ‘session’ and hadn’t returned since.

Castiel yanked on the manacles once more, wincing as the metal edges bit into raw, ragged skin. He wished he could do _something_. He was unaccustomed to feeling helpless like this, and it chafed his spirit as much as the iron shackles did his wrists.

A scuff drew his attention to the archway, and he tensed as two men sauntered in. Their smirking lips and predatory miens accentuated the demons’ true faces that Castiel could see underneath—blackened husks with bottomless eyes void of any light or purity. They split apart and began to stalk around the chained angel.

“Poor little bird in a cage,” one of them sneered, a brawny man with a beard that almost reminded Castiel of the Winchester’s friend, Bobby. “Will you sing for us?”

“Yeah,” the second chimed. He was shorter in stature, but the feral gleam in his eyes was no less dangerous. Slowly, he reached into his jacket and withdrew a silver short-sword with a small, circular cross-guard between the blade and grip. With a flicker of unease, Castiel recognized his angel blade. Lucifer must have confiscated it.

The demon licked his lips, rotating the sword between his fingers. “I bet we can get all _kinds_ of fun sounds from it.”

Castiel glowered, gaze flicking back and forth between them as they edged closer. He would not show these vermin fear.

They skirted around the sides, so even if Castiel wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to pull the same move he had on Meg. Maybe this was her revenge, though she struck him as the type to do things herself.

The scrawny demon sidled up to him and placed the edge of the angel blade across his throat. Castiel held himself rigid, forcing a stoic facade.

“Now don’t be shy, little bird.”

“Maybe we can get ‘im to show us the wings,” the other said, hemming Castiel in on the other side. Hot breath tickled his ear, and the caustic whiff of brimstone made him want to gag. “I’ve never played with feathers before.”

“Go. To. Hell,” he ground out. It seemed an appropriate response, yet the feeble retort fell awkwardly from Castiel’s mouth.

The demon with the knife grinned. “Already been. Love it.” He dragged the blade slowly across Castiel’s neck, nicking a shallow crevice through skin. Castiel clenched his jaw against the urge to make a sound as his grace flared under the assault. He braced himself for another onslaught of pain, but then a cold voice spoke from the entrance, heavy with menace that sent chills down Castiel’s spine.

“What did I say?”

The demons hastily jumped back, putting a good two feet between them and Castiel. Lucifer stepped into the alcove, and even the shadows seemed to cower at his presence. His minacious aura wafted off him in palpable, menacing ripples that made the two demons shuffle their feet and exchange nervous glances. Castiel was actually relieved such wrath was not currently directed toward him, but the reassurance he felt at seeing Lucifer as his would-be savior also twisted his stomach into knots.

“We’re sorry, my lord,” the stockier man bumbled, ducking his head reverently.

“We just thought, since he ain’t cooperating…”

Lucifer snapped his fingers, and the scraggy demon blew apart in a cloud of blood and tissue. Bone fragments splattered across the floor and the bottom of Castiel’s pant legs, but he’d mostly been shielded by the first demon, who was now coated in ichor. The angel blade the other demon had been holding flung through the air to clatter in a dark corner.

Lucifer turned toward the remaining demon, expression far too calm that mismatched the waves of wrath emanating from the archangel. “Get a hose and clean this up.”

Bobbing his head frantically, the minion scrambled out of the alcove to do as told. Lucifer roved his gaze over the smattering of gore in mild consideration, and then shifted to approach Castiel. “I see some new disciplinary measures need to be put into place,” he said conversationally.

Castiel didn’t say anything. It was strange that Lucifer had declared him off-limits to the demons. He was a prisoner, and yet not being horribly mistreated…really, his time in Heaven had been far worse. And again, that thread of gratitude toward Lucifer that snaked through him left Castiel with an uncomfortable niggle in the back of his mind.

When Lucifer stepped closer, he flinched instinctively, braced for another invasion into his memories. The archangel’s eyes twinkled with a hint of amusement. “I think we can skip the trip down memory lane this time, Castiel. I know it’s been difficult for you to relive them.”

Castiel couldn’t help the snort that escaped his throat. He jingled the manacles pointedly. “You are not concerned about my comfort.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Lucifer countered, wagging a finger at him. “You’re my brother. I would love nothing more than for you to join me. What I’ve been doing has been to _help_ you see the truth, Castiel. The truth about Heaven.” He leaned a shoulder against the column and crossed his arms casually, so close that Castiel had to turn his head to meet the Devil’s gaze.

“I’m aware of how corrupt Heaven has become,” he ground out. After all, that was why he’d rebelled, because he believed in humanity’s free will, just as God had ordained. Angels had no right to manipulate people the way they did. And neither did Lucifer.

“Then why not stand with me?”

Castiel tilted his head to the side. “Because you are equally deplorable.”

“According to Heaven. Think about it, Castiel, why you’re resisting so strongly—it’s what _Heaven_ trained you to do. But you already know they’ve been wrong about things before. Like Sam.”

“You are nothing like Sam Winchester.”

Lucifer shrugged and finally moved away from the pillar. “When are you going to accept that you have nothing to lose and everything to gain by joining me? What are you truly standing for here?”

“Humanity—”

“Is a disease. You’ve seen it, Castiel, seen what those vile, murderous wretches are capable of. Why should their suffering continue?”

“There’s good in them,” Castiel protested, but it came out weak as snippets from his correction stint in Heaven leaked through to haunt his conscious mind again.

Lucifer sighed with thinning patience. “The humans will be destroyed one way or another. Even Heaven has agreed with that. You need to choose a side, Castiel. Heaven will never take you back, so you might as well come over to my team.”

Castiel lifted his chin staunchly. “No. I choose…door number three.” That seemed like something Dean would say. Castiel thought it strange that a small part of him wished the older Winchester was there to confirm whether he’d gotten the colloquialism right. In the grand scheme of his current predicament, it didn’t really matter.

Lucifer arched a brow. “And what, exactly, is your other option?”

“God.”

Lucifer laughed. “Ah yes, your search for dear old dad. That’s rather cute, how you think God’s going to intervene here.”

Castiel drew his shoulders back. “When I find him—”

“You won’t. Don’t you get it, Castiel? God _doesn’t care_ what happens.”

“No.” Castiel shook his head forcefully. “God put you in the cage.”

“Yes,” Lucifer said simply. “And he let me out. Set up the board like dominoes.” The Devil walked his fingers through the air. “Sure, Dad gave me a timeout, but he obviously realized that his new favorite toys weren’t going to stay pretty and shiny forever. Someone would have to clean up the mess _humanity_ made. But he’s too much of a softie to wipe them out himself. I mean, look at the Flood. One pious man pops up, and suddenly Dad’s drawing schematics for an ark to save this guy and his family. And then the cycle starts all over.”

Castiel stared at him dubiously. “You mock God’s mercy.”

“Is it mercy to let their filth and depravity continue to taint the world?”

Castiel scoffed. “It would not be worse than the world you would make.”

“Or the one angels would should they win,” Lucifer countered. “God’s not going to choose sides, because there’s no right or wrong here, Castiel. Only victor and loser.”

Castiel looked away; there was no use arguing with a deranged mind.

“I do think, however,” Lucifer said carefully. “That God does care about _you_ , Castiel. He brought you back. You should see this situation for what it is: Dad’s lifeboat for you.”

Castiel whipped his gaze up.

“Whether you join me or not, Heaven will eventually track you down and kill you. Probably even make you suffer first. You need my protection.”

Castiel rolled his shoulder, the phantom echo of a past encounter with some siblings throbbing at the base of his wing. It tore at his heart how unreservedly they’d tried to kill him, calling him a traitor who deserved to die. Even if the Winchesters succeeded in stopping the Apocalypse, Castiel would never be able to go home. He’d known, in the abstract, what he was sacrificing when he chose to help Dean stand against Zachariah. Living those consequences in actuality, however, had been more trying than he’d anticipated.

“God brought you back once, Castiel, and now he’s giving you the chance to save yourself again. Join me. I’m offering you what a brother should: a place to belong. No judgment, no condemnation.”

Castiel hated how those words washed over him, deceptively sweet and seductive. They struck a chord deep within his being, targeting his innermost pain and yearnings to rub them raw while also extending a balm.

_No_ , he told himself. Lucifer had been inside his head, knew his weaknesses. And now the Devil was only trying to use them against him. But Castiel would not give in.

“That…camaraderie…you offer,” he ground out slowly. “Is ephemeral, only lasting as long as you get what you want.” Castiel lifted his chin and forced his voice to level out. “Besides, I have found those things…a new family…with Sam and Dean.”

The word ‘family’ sounded heavy on his tongue, perhaps because it felt too presumptuous on his part. It was a sacred word to the Winchesters, and one they would never use for him. Yet Castiel did feel a connection to the boys. They were his charges, gave him a purpose when everything else about who he was had been stripped away.

Lucifer pursed his lips thoughtfully. “That so? Well, I hate to break it to you, ‘Cas,’ but Sam now knows you were the one who let him out of the panic room that night.”

Castiel’s blood ran cold with shame and guilt, and something in his heart cracked. How… He closed his eyes and tipped his head back. Of course, Lucifer had had full access to when Castiel had been recalled to Heaven—and the days following. Castiel’s mental shields had been so focused on protecting the Winchesters’ secrets that he’d failed to guard the one he himself had carried since that fateful night.

“He’s grief-stricken, you know,” Lucifer continued. “That kind of betrayal isn’t easily forgotten. Or forgiven.”

Castiel wanted to protest that he’d only been following orders, doing what he thought was right at the time. He realized later how wrong he was, and was trying to make up for it now. Sam would understand that. After all, the younger Winchester carried a similar burden.

“Dean will never forgive you either.”

Those words cut to Castiel’s soul and nearly rent it in two. _Dean_. If Dean knew what he’d done…the older Winchester would _hate_ him. Would probably stab him again, and why did that thought fill Castiel with such anguish? Because he’d sacrificed everything for Dean? And now he would have nothing to show for it. He’d failed to stop Lucifer’s rising, failed to find a way to stop the Apocalypse, and now Lucifer was right: Castiel had nothing left. Why had God brought him back at all?

Lucifer made a small clucking noise with his tongue, and placed a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. He flinched under the contact, despite its uncharacteristic gentleness. “I understand it hurts, Castiel. To be cast out and abandoned by those you love, those you call family. And for only doing what you thought was best at the time? But there’s no need for you to be completely alone. I can look out for you, be the older brother you always wanted. The way Dean is to Sam that he could never be for you.”

Castiel squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, though it was more out of desperate denial than outright refusal. He wanted to cry out to God for deliverance, but his father had never answered his prayers, not even before he’d rebelled against Heaven. Castiel had been convinced that God was just out of range in whatever remote location he’d hidden out in, but what if the truth was God was simply ignoring him? He’d brought Castiel back from death only to cast him haphazardly to the wind. All this time, he’d been trying to follow his father’s will, but what _was_ God’s will?

The grip on his shoulder squeezed, and a soft voice bathed him in the tempting promise of love and acceptance. “Castiel, brother, come home.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to Lucifer’s time in Heaven is derived from the story “The Book of Gabriel" by 29-pieces-of-me, which is posted over on ff.net. If you read over there, it's an awesome head canon of angels and their history.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, wringing his hands in his lap. He was starting to feel like a caged animal. He couldn’t be sure, but it must have been several hours since Lucifer’s last visit, enough time for Sam to cycle through the stages of grief. He’d tried retreating back to denial, but that didn’t last long. The explanation that Cas had been the one to open the panic room somehow just made the most sense. And really, why would Lucifer lie about that, of all things?

Next had come anger, and boy had he spent a good deal of time cursing dickhead angels and fantasizing about ramming pointy celestial blades through their throats. He never really got so far as wanting to kill Cas, though he had plenty of fury to throw at that angel as well. Dean had trusted him, _befriended_ him, and Cas had betrayed them.

Except…the angel had then gone and pulled a one-eighty, rebelled against Heaven to help Dean get to Sam. And Castiel had died as a result. Sure, he’d been brought back…to a world quickly going down the toilet, without full power to do anything about it. In the quiet moments between Sam’s own misery, he could recognize how hard that must be for the once all-powerful angel of God. Plus, Sam didn’t truly believe that Cas had ever meant him or Dean harm. If he thought about it long enough, Sam remembered how Cas had been yanked out of his vessel and sent back to Heaven. And when he’d come back that night in the warehouse, he’d been different. Cold and aloof and biting to Dean. Something must have happened. Something to make him fall back in line.

Sam hadn’t given it any consideration then; he’d been going through withdrawal, too obsessed with scoring his next fix to properly watch over Jimmy Novak. And then he’d killed that demon, drank its blood, and exorcised Amelia Novak. The high—plus the expression on Dean’s face—had pretty much blotted out anything else about that night. And then of course Dean had lured him into Bobby’s panic room to lock him up and throw away the key. After which came that horrific detox until nothing else mattered except getting out, getting his fix, and killing Lilith.

Which was how Sam finally arrived at accepting responsibility for _his_ actions. He’d been determined to stop Lilith at all costs, and no one, not even Dean, would have been able to convince him to abandon that course of action. Dean and Bobby would have had to let him out of the panic room eventually, and once that happened, Sam probably would have gone straight to Ruby anyway. So it didn’t matter whether it’d been Cas, another angel, or even a demon, who had opened the door; all they did was push the timetable up a bit.

The admission left Sam wallowing in a sea of self-loathing, guilt, and doubt. Had he made such poor, stupid decisions because he’d been foolish? Or had he gone down that path because it was in his nature? No, if Sam had _known_ that Lilith was the final Seal, he wouldn’t have killed her! All of Lucifer’s spouting about Sam having not done anything wrong with the demon blood…he wouldn’t believe it. It was wrong; he’d been wrong. And he wouldn’t go down that path again.

Not willingly, anyway. He doubted Lucifer would be patient forever. Sam didn’t know whether he’d be able to withstand physical torture if it came to that, especially since the emotional torment was difficult enough.

He pinched the bridge of his nose; the headache was getting worse, adding lightheadedness to the mix, and Sam begrudgingly admitted that if he didn’t eat, he wouldn’t be in very good shape to continue resisting the Devil. So, he finally gave in and approached the food on the table. He eyed the platter of fruit and vegetables warily. Lucifer wouldn’t poison him, true, but what if he tried to sneak demon blood into it?

Sam picked up a carrot stick and sniffed it. It didn’t _smell_ like it was infused with demon blood. He snapped off a crisp corner. It actually tasted pretty good, and before Sam could stop himself, he’d eaten half the tray of carrots, broccoli, and strawberries. There were also some finger sandwiches cut into triangles, which he ate six of. He vaguely wondered how long it’d been since he’d last eaten.

Finally full, Sam moved back toward the bed. His headache was receding, thankfully, and the food hadn’t actually been tampered with, much to his relief. He couldn’t decide whether he was overly paranoid or not, but he didn’t trust Lucifer one bit.

He flexed his fingers in and out over the bedspread, growing more antsy the longer he was left alone. Not that he wanted Lucifer to return, but the walls of this room, even as spacious as it was, were steadily closing in and suffocating him. His gaze briefly fell on the Devil’s small collection of classic literature, which Sam was tempted to pull out just to distract himself from going insane, but he decided against it. He wouldn’t let Lucifer think he was getting _comfortable_ here.

When the lock on the door clicked, Sam jolted to his feet in both fear and anticipation. He wasn’t making any headway on an escape plan stuck in this room, so he needed an idea of what was beyond that door and the layout of wherever he was being held. Somehow he had to figure out a way to get that information.

Sam edged to the side as the door creaked open. He got a better angle of the top of the turbine just outside, and figured he was on the second floor, maybe third. From what he could tell, there were no guards stationed on the door, probably because they knew Sam was securely locked up, but that meant if he could just _find_ a way to pick the lock, he could sneak out. But then what?

Lucifer stepped inside and shut the door, cutting off his view. “Hello, Sam.” His gaze flitted to the table, and he smiled at the half-eaten veggie tray. “Feel better?”

Sam pressed his lips together. Hell would freeze over before he thanked the Devil for _anything_. He drew his shoulders back. “I want to see Cas.”

Lucifer arched a brow, and Sam held his breath. He needed to get a look around the place, and this was the best excuse he could think of. Maybe if he led Lucifer to believe he wanted to confront Cas about the panic room, ‘feed that anger,’ as the archangel had said.

“I don’t think Castiel would want to see you right now.”

Sam frowned. “Why not?”

“He has a decision to make.”

Sam’s heart dropped into his stomach. Was Lucifer asking Cas to join him? Well, that made sense. Every soldier counted, right? But surely Cas would never say yes! Would he? No, Cas was searching for God, was probably the only angel left in existence who still believed the big man upstairs could—or would—do anything to help them. Cas would never abandon that faith.

Sam held his chin up. “I deserve for him to tell me to my face what he did.” He inwardly winced at the harshness in his tone, but if it accomplished his purpose…

Lucifer eyed him for a long moment, and Sam tried not to fidget, but he felt as though the Devil could see right through him. “He already knows you’ll never forgive him for that. That your brother will never forgive him.”

Wait, _what_?

Lucifer’s lips twitched smugly. “Now that he knows he doesn’t have anywhere to go, his only choice is to join me…or die. Either the angels will kill him, or perhaps Dean Winchester himself, when he learns of Castiel’s role in unlocking the panic room.”

Sam’s head reeled. Was that what Lucifer had been telling Cas? But the angel wouldn’t believe it, would he? He wouldn’t actually think that Sam and Dean would turn their backs on him, not after everything? Sam suddenly felt the urge to smash that door down and find him so he could tell Cas the truth, that Sam had forgiven him, and that Dean would too.

“You sympathize with him,” Lucifer spoke up softly. “After all, your brother hasn’t forgiven you either.”

Sam flinched as though he’d been physically slapped. “What?”

“For cavorting with Ruby, the demon blood, setting me free” he elaborated.

Pressure like a vice closed around Sam’s ribs and squeezed. “No, Dean and I worked through that.”

Lucifer gave him a pitying look. “Did you? Maybe that’s what Dean told you, so you’d come back. Probably gave you some speech about brothers needing to stick together. But what he really wanted was to keep you in his sights. Monitor the threat up close so he could control you.”

Sam shook his head with a snort. “That’s not true.” If Lucifer thought _this_ argument would sway him, then the Devil was sorely losing his touch. Dean and Sam cared about each other; that was why they always chose to stick it out, through thick and thin, no matter what disagreements they had in the past.

“No? What do you imagine Dean’s thinking right now, knowing you’re here with me?” Lucifer tutted sadly. “He knows what you are, Sam. He may still love you, don’t get me wrong.” The Devil paused, mouth curling upward. “But he’s never going to truly trust you. Not after everything.”

Sam wanted to clap his hands over his ears and scream, anything to block out those words. He tried to cling to his faith in Dean, to remember all the times his older brother had looked out for him. Dean had gone to _Hell_ to save him! But for some reason, all he could recall were the fights, of Dean calling him a monster, doubting him after Sam had sworn off the demon blood. What _was_ Dean thinking now? That Sam was weak? That sooner or later he’d give in to Lucifer and Dean would have to prep himself for killing his brother? For tracking him down just like the things they hunted?

Shaking his head, Sam skirted around Lucifer to get away, but there was no escape. He ended up pressed in the corner between the bed and small table with Lucifer slowly hemming him in.

“I know all you wanted was a normal life, Sam, and I’m sorry that’s not in the cards for you. You’re not normal; you’re special. And unfortunately, the rest of the world is never going to accept you for who and what you are. To them, you’ll always be just another monster.”

Sam gritted his teeth, hearing that word echo through his mind in both Lucifer’s and Dean’s voices.

“But here, Sam,” Lucifer continued. “With me you’ll be worshiped and revered. A god among puny mortals. You’ll be home.”

He shook his head. “I won’t be responsible for wiping out the planet!”

“How many deaths are on your hands now?” Lucifer asked.

Sam’s breath stole from his lungs as the face of every victim he’d killed flashed before his eyes. Before his powers of exorcism—and after—Sam had slain demons without abandon. Innocent blood was on his hands, directly and indirectly, for who knew how many had died since the Apocalypse had started.

“What about those two hunters you came to Carthage with? The women.”

Sam’s heart seized. _No_. He hadn’t had a chance to grieve Ellen and Jo yet, and now regret rent through his heart like a razor. Sam slid down the wall to the floor, bracing his head in his hands. What was he fighting for in the end? The more lives he tried to save, the more seemed to die.

Lucifer’s silky voice penetrated the maelstrom of his thoughts. “I know you didn’t _intend_ to get them killed. You were just ‘trying to do the right thing,’ like you always do.” Lucifer let out a soft sigh. “All your life, you’ve tried to earn approval from others, from your brother. But how can you ever make him proud, after everything that’s happened? Don’t you think it’s better to say yes now, get it over with instead of going through the rest of your life trying to win something Dean can never give you?”

Sam’s chest constricted, and he found it was getting harder to breathe. It was too much, all the guilt and fear that one day he would just screw up again, no matter how hard he tried. Why keep putting it off? Why prolong this torment? Maybe it would be better if he let go. Yeah, people would die, but they were dying already. Because of his mistakes. He could never atone for that.

Lucifer knelt in front of him. “Sam. What do you say?”

Sam closed his eyes. Everything inside him screamed no…everything except a tiny voice that was just so tired and worn. He tried to focus on what Dean expected him to do, to stay strong. But Dean had doubted him before…what if he’d already given up on Sam? He didn’t think he could live with the cloud of his older brother’s disappointment hanging over him.

And the more Sam dwelled on that feeling, the less reasons he could remember for why he shouldn’t say ‘yes.’

* * *

“Yes.”

Zachariah’s face split into a wide grin, and the angel spread his arms. Dean flinched as white light burst from the smarmy bastard, and he braced himself for whatever the hell it felt like to have an archangel suddenly jump inside his meat suit. Only, instead of shaking walls, exploding light bulbs, and an ear-splitting screech like a jet engine, Zachariah’s smug smile twisted into a pained grimace. His eyes flashed with rage a second before he disappeared, his visage ripped away in the blinding beam.

Dean stared dumbfounded at the empty spot. “What the hell…” he muttered.

“My song exactly,” came a British accented voice.

Dean whirled to find Crowley standing next to the door, an angel-banishing sigil marked in blood on the wall. The Crossroads demon removed his palm from the charred center and flicked burnt flakes from his fingers.

“Oh, that comes in handy.” He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his hand clean.

Dean’s mouth moved, but he couldn’t seem to make any coherent sounds come out. “Wh— how did you…?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “We should go, before the winged ass comes back.”

Fury finally burst through Dean’s stupefaction. “What the hell are you doing? Where did you even learn that?” He glanced at the vermillion sigil, edges now dripping down the grainy wood.

“It’s amazing what tidbits you can pick up when no one thinks you’re watching,” Crowley replied blithely, then added with a scathing tone, “and I’m stopping you from ending the world. That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, well the plan was to kill Satan with the Colt.” Dean took the gun out and slammed it on the counter. “News flash—it didn’t work!”

“So I gathered. And what, now you’re throwing in the towel, just like that?” Crowley huffed out an unimpressed snort.

“Lucifer has Sam,” Dean growled. “I plan on taking the Devil out before he gets the chance to wear my brother to the prom, so I suggest you scram before that ‘winged ass’ comes back. ‘Cause you can be sure as hell he’ll be pissed.” Dean just hoped Zachariah wouldn’t be pissed at _him_. He could just imagine the angel going back on their deal and waiting until Lucifer possessed Sam before initiating their cosmic showdown. Dean scowled at the knowledge he’d probably have to kiss some major angel ass to soothe Zachariah’s ruffled feathers. Even if banishing him was something Dean had wanted to do himself.

Crowley stuffed his hands in his pockets. “That’s one way to go. Or, you could try a rescue mission.”

Dean blinked. “Excuse me?”

A sly smile lifted the corners of Crowley’s mouth. “I know where they are.”

The air seemed to get sucked out of his lungs all at once in the desperate thrill of suffocating hope. “You know where Sam is?”

“Detroit.”

And that revelation was like ice water down his spine. Detroit was where Sam had said yes in that alternate future. And Dean vaguely remembered hearing Lucifer in the field telling Sam that’s where it would happen, within six months. But it’d only been a day, which meant Dean still had time…

“If we leave now,” Crowley put in. “That phallus on wheels of yours could get us there in twelve hours.”

Dean stared dumbly at the Crossroads demon. “What the hell is your game here?” Sure, Crowley had given them the Colt to take out Lucifer—never mind it hadn’t worked. But now he was offering to help Dean rescue Sam?

“I told you,” he replied impatiently. “I’m not just gonna sit back and wait for Lucifer to exterminate me and my kind.”

“Yeah, but I thought after giving us the Colt you were laying low.”

“Desperate times and all.” He swept his gaze around the bar. “So, shall we? Or would you really prefer to be an angel condom?”

Dean’s jaw tightened. What Crowley was suggesting was suicide…but then, so was turning himself over to the archangel. Well, if this rescue failed, Dean could always pray to Zach again. What would the angel do anyway, turn down his surrender out of spite for getting blasted back to Oz? Not likely. The angels needed him. And they could afford to wait a little longer…

“Fine.” Stuffing the Colt back in his jacket, Dean strode around the counter toward the door. “Where exactly in Detroit?”

“I’ll guide you when we get there.”

Dean’s brows shot up as Crowley, instead of blipping off, kept pace with him as he marched down the street in search of the Impala. For a moment, Dean considered going back and grabbing another bottle of liquor. He was going on a road trip with King of the Crossroads in search of the Devil. Oh yeah, this was going to be fantastic.


	7. Chapter 7

Spending ten hours in the car with a Crossroads demon riding shotgun was not an experience Dean ever wanted to repeat again. If it wasn’t for the fact that he needed Crowley to find Lucifer, he probably would’ve ganked the demon after the first hour. Between the snarky disses—of Dean’s music tastes, the _Impala_ —and the demon’s self-aggrandized ramblings on the disorganization of Hell and how _he’d_ redesign it were he in charge, Dean was ready to toss Crowley out of the moving vehicle. But since he couldn’t, he had to focus on channeling his irritation into another outlet, mainly in his lead foot and white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.

They stopped only once for gas, and with Dean pushing the speed limits the whole way, they made it to Detroit in ten hours. Crowley directed Dean toward the outskirts of the city, and he finally pulled to a stop in front of an old abandoned power plant.

“Well, Satan’s really slumming it, isn’t he? You sure this is the place?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, and reached across the dash to point at a platform up near the drum where two guys were standing. “No hard hats, and does it look like they’re doing anything? So either they’re incredibly negligent employees, or—”

“They’re demons,” Dean finished. “Okay, so what’s the plan? Those probably aren’t the only mooks hanging around.”

“I’ll create a distraction so you can get inside.”

Dean waited a beat. “And then? The place is huge. How am I supposed to find Sam in there?”

“What, you want me to hold your hand?” Crowley snipped.

Dean scowled and opened the driver’s side door. Fine, he’d do this himself. Besides, he didn’t trust a demon to watch his back anyway.

Crowley climbed out after him, calling over the Impala’s roof. “Oh, and if things go south, don’t expect another rescue from me.”

Dean slammed his door shut. “I thought we were in this together.”

“No,” the demon drawled. “I’m in this for myself. Which only goes so far as to give you a fighting chance. I’m willing to give these idiots a fun chase, but I’m not stupid enough to set foot inside that place. So the rest will be up to that Winchester, Hail Mary bullshit you normally pull.”

“Lucifer killing me isn’t exactly going to keep your ass safe in the long run.”

“No, but unfortunately, we’ve been reduced to short-term action plans. Now—” Crowley made a shooing motion with his wrist. “Shall we play ding-dong-ditch with the Devil?”

In the blink of an eye, the demon was gone, leaving Dean standing alone in the weeded lot. Grumbling about not trusting that piece of shit as far as he could throw him, Dean holstered the Colt, unsheathed Ruby’s knife, and crept toward the factory. He skirted around the opposite side where the goons were stationed, keeping his eyes peeled for more sentries. He made it all the way to an entry point without encountering any, but then hesitated. What kind of distraction was Crowley planning on making? And how long was Dean supposed to wait? If Sam was in there, every second could count.

A moment before he was about to barge in regardless of Crowley’s ‘distraction,’ an explosion cracked the air and rocked the ground. On the other side of the compound, Dean saw huge sparks flying upward and what looked like power lines whipping back and forth like decapitated snakes. _Way to go, Crowley. Just try not to blow the whole joint._

The door a foot in front of Dean suddenly swung open, and would have clobbered him in the face if his back hadn’t already been pressed to the wall. A support pole bracing a frame above also saved him from being squashed as several demons poured out. He gripped Ruby’s knife at the ready, but the demons didn’t spare a look behind them, too focused on the explosions still going off up ahead. Dean counted to five after they’d filed out to make sure no others would emerge, and then he edged around the door and slipped inside. Now to figure out where they were keeping Sam.

Sticking to the shadows as much as possible, Dean crept along the first floor around generators and pumps, and started to think that Crowley was wrong, or at the very least that Lucifer was no longer here. This hardly seemed the place to keep a prisoner.

He heard the sound of one set of footsteps coming toward him, and ducked between two conduits. A bobbing shadow entered his field of vision first, and as soon as the demon strode past, Dean leaped out and jammed Ruby’s knife through his neck. The demon jerked on the skewer, completely taken off guard as orange lightning flashed through his skull. Dean wrenched the blade free, and the body thudded to the floor. Glancing around to make sure the coast was still clear, he bent down to grab the arms, and dragged the body between the conduits, stuffing unruly limbs at awkward angles between the panels.

More footsteps clattered on the catwalk above, and Dean ducked down, trying to blend in with the shadows.

“What’s going on?” he heard Meg’s voice snap. Bitter anger ignited anew in Dean’s gut; he wanted nothing more than to ice the bitch that had killed Ellen and Jo. _Later_ , he reminded himself. Sam came first. He inched forward to get a better view while remaining hidden. It was difficult to see through the webbing of pipes and cables, but he could make out four figures on the second level.

“We’re under attack,” a man replied gruffly. “It…Harlan said it’s Crowley.”

Through the rails, Dean saw Meg’s face twist with fury. “I’ll _kill_ him. You two.” She gestured sharply at the other lackeys. “Guard the vessel.”

Dean sucked in a breath. _Bingo_.

Meg and the first demon went one way, and the others scurried in the opposite direction. Dean trailed them from below, trying to keep them in sight while still watching out for other demons he might run into. But the place seemed oddly vacant. Guess it was a good thing Crowley had come along after all. Dean almost wished the Crossroads demon luck should he run into Meg. It’d be a shame if the bitch killed him. Well, not really. Actually, it’d be great if the two could just end up killing each other, though Dean would prefer to have the pleasure of stabbing Meg through the heart himself. But if he got Sam back, he didn’t care how she bit the dust.

He slunk up to a turbine and waited as the two thugs slowed to a stop in front of a door upstairs, taking up a guard stance in front of it. Dean was banking on Sam being in there. There was a staircase a few paces behind him, so Dean backtracked toward it. The metal steps creaked under his feet, which he winced at. He wasn’t going to get much of a drop on these guys anyway, so he decided to just barrel in.

With a burst of speed, Dean sprinted up the rest of the way and charged the demons. They barely batted an eyelid at his sudden appearance, as they never did. Shoulders pushed out like hulking brutes, they merely lunged forward in response. But underestimating a Winchester would be the last mistake they ever made.

Dean ducked under the first one and stabbed Ruby’s knife into his back. A strangled scream tore from his throat as his body arched in a dying spasm. Before Dean could yank the blade loose, however, the second demon sucker punched him in the jaw. Spots burst across his vision and he went down on one knee. He threw himself at the demon’s legs, toppling the dude’s balance until he fell across Dean’s shoulders. Dean grunted as his back twinged, but then he shoved the demon into the wall, following through with a knife to the heart. It died with a spritz and gurgle.

Dean staggered to his feet, whipping his head around to make sure the ruckus hadn’t drawn further attention. Luckily, it seemed the rest of the demon squad was outside trying to wrangle Crowley. Dean sincerely hoped the smarmy bastard gave them a run for their money—only so Dean would have more time to get Sam out, of course.

He turned toward the door, a thick iron slab labeled ‘Steam Pipe Distribution Center.’ Okay, guess there were stranger places to keep a hostage. Dean’s heart thundered in his chest, wondering if Lucifer was on the other side. Swapping Ruby’s knife for the Colt—because yeah, even though it didn’t _kill_ the Devil, it at least knocked him down for a minute—he gripped the handle and yanked it open.

Dean barged in, gun raised, only to jerk to a halt as his feet landed on a large Turkish rug and his eyes took in taupe colored walls with bronze light fixtures, and a king-size bed that looked fit for, well, a French monarch. He blinked in bewilderment, then cast a look over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t just stepped through some freaky portal. But nope, the power plant’s interior was still behind him on one side of the threshold, and on the other this empty, ornate suite. The feeling of jumping between two realities was eerily familiar, reminding Dean of the Trickster’s pocket dimension. But then, the Trickster had turned out to be the archangel Gabriel, so maybe he and Lucifer shared a few tricks…

Was this Lucifer’s chambers? But…then where was Sam? Dean couldn’t be too late, could he? The demons had been told to guard the vessel, so Sam _had_ to be here. Mounting panic sent Dean’s pulse into overdrive, but then movement in the back corner caught his attention, and Sam emerged from an opening. His little brother stopped short, eyes wide and reddened, face splotchy from splashing water on it. For a moment, they just stared at each other, Sam in apparent shock, Dean searching for physical signs of torture that might explain the desolate and hollow look in his brother’s eyes.

“ _Dean?_ ” Sam stammered first.

Dean’s face cracked with a borderline hysteric grin. “Hey, Sammy. Ready to blow this joint?”

“But, how are you…?”

“Long story.” He glanced back at the catwalk and gestured sharply. “Let’s get out of here first.” For the most part, Sam actually seemed in one piece.

Sam took a step forward, but then hesitated. “Wait, is, is it really you? How do I know this isn’t some twisted ruse to get my guard down?”

Dean’s heart twisted that Sam would doubt his appearance. After all, he always came for his brother, no matter what. But he couldn’t imagine what treatment Sam had suffered in Lucifer’s clutches for an entire day. Although, the fancy digs sure didn’t seem that torturous…

Easing the door partially closed, Dean turned and took a step toward Sam. “It’s me. The one who made Mac&Cheese with tomato soup for your sixth birthday because you wanted pasta, and dad wasn’t around to tell me how to do it right.” He put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Whole thing tasted disgusting, but we both ate it anyway.”

A muscle in Sam’s cheek ticked, and Dean could see him trying to work something out. It left a sick feeling in his gut, until finally he felt the tension bleed from Sam’s rigid muscles, and then his brother was pulling him into an abrupt hug.

“How the hell did you find me?”

Dean gave him a slap of solidarity on the back before pulling away. “Crowley, believe it or not. Now come on, we need to leave while he’s still distracting them.” He reached behind his waistband and pulled out Ruby’s knife, which he passed to Sam. Then he held the Colt up at the ready and peeked out into the factory. “What was Lucifer’s plan here? Pamper you into saying yes?”

Sam froze. “You think I’d give in so easily, for material _comfort_?”

Dean blinked, and had to duck back in when he realized Sam wasn’t following. “No, dude, of course not.” It wasn’t like he’d wanted to find his little brother strung up in a dungeon or torture chamber, but finding him in the equivalent of a palace was a _little_ disorienting. There were even platters of half-eaten food on the table near the wall.

Sam took a step back. “Did you make a deal with Crowley? My god, Dean, did you sell your _soul_ again? Because you thought I’d give in and say yes?”

“What? No! Crowley offered to help. He wants Lucifer dead too, remember? And I didn’t think that.”

Except he had. He’d wondered what it would take for Sam to give in, and that was why he’d gone to Zachariah. So, yeah, maybe Dean had doubted his brother, which was bad enough, but not nearly as bad as the fact that _Dean_ had ended up caving first. What would Sam think of him if he knew? Kid was hurt by the thought Dean didn’t trust him, that much he could tell, but if Sam knew the truth? That Dean’s worry over him not being able to hold out forever had led to him being the weak one? Sam had hated it when Dean sold his soul to save him, and what had Dean done? Gone and pulled the self-sacrificial move once again, in the worst way possible. Yeah, how could Sam forgive him for that? For doing exactly what Dean hadn’t wanted Sam to do. But, Dean hadn’t actually gone through with it.

_Only ‘cause a demon interrupted you_.

Still, he was here, Michael wasn’t.

“Look, we can talk about this later,” he snapped.

“How long have I been gone?” Sam asked abruptly.

Dean blinked. “What? Almost twenty-four hours.” He vaguely registered the windowless room, and could understand how Sam might not know, though it hardly seemed important at the moment.

Something haunted entered Sam’s eyes. “You thought I’d say yes that quickly?” he said in a soft voice.

“ _No_.” Jeez, what was with him? Who the hell complained about getting rescued _expeditiously_? “Sam, seriously, we need to go. Unless you want to stay.” Dean had meant to say it with blithe snark, not make Sam flinch like that, but at least it got his brother moving. Stiffly, Sam followed Dean out onto the catwalk, stepping lightly over the dead bodies. Pounding feet echoed from the level below, and the brothers waited for the demons to storm past, heading toward the opposite side of the plant. Dean thought he heard the muffled sound of another explosion. Where was Lucifer in all this?

Sam’s gaze kept flicking around nervously, as though afraid the Devil would pop in any second. Dean was actually terrified of that too, and he half-sprinted toward the stairs, battling the urge to run full out with the need to maintain stealth. It would be better if they could make it to the Impala without anyone noticing their departure, because even with the Colt and Ruby’s knife, they were not prepared to take on a large horde of demons. As for Crowley, well, he was the one who’d said every man for himself.

“Wait,” Sam hissed at the bottom of the stairs.

Dean gritted his teeth. “What now?”

Sam’s mouth tightened at the tone, but their was a hint of his classic ‘bitch-face’ underneath. “We have to find Cas.”

Dean’s jaw went slack in surprise. “What? Cas is here?”

“So Lucifer hinted.” Sam glanced both directions, expression pinching. “I don’t know where he’s being held though.”

Dean’s mind reeled. The angel was alive. The stupid son-of-a-bitch wasn’t dead, hadn’t run out on them after all.

But this place was huge; how were they supposed to find him? The longer they lingered, the more chance Lucifer would return, and then this whole rescue would’ve been for nothing. Better for Dean to get Sam out, and then maybe he could come back. Not that he’d be able to pull off a covert infiltration twice. No, Dean couldn’t leave Cas here. He didn’t know why Lucifer would be keeping the angel alive, but it couldn’t be for good. Besides, Dean was through leaving people he cared about behind.

Gripping the Colt tighter, he squared his shoulders. “We’ll find him.”

Sam nodded resolutely, a spark of fight returning to his eyes. And so the two Winchesters strode off in search of their angel.


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel stared at the concrete floor, watching ripples of water run and wash away the blood stains. Wasn’t it supposed to be the opposite? That blood washed away one’s sins? Castiel wished absolution could come so easily for him, but he was under no illusions. It didn’t matter that everything he had done had been in pursuit of an ideal he thought to be right. First by obeying Heaven’s orders, then by standing with Dean Winchester and supporting humanity’s right to freewill. But what had it been for in the end?

Cold water splashed his pants when the demon hosing down the floor sprayed too close, but Castiel paid him no mind. He didn’t fear the demon disobeying Lucifer’s command to leave him alone, and so he simply focused on the water slurping toward a drain in the corner, his thoughts running as wildly as the waves. Castiel would never join Lucifer, no matter what, but he couldn’t ignore the truth of the Devil’s words to him. Where _was_ God? Did their father truly not care about what was happening? About what Heaven had become in his name? If God didn’t care, what was Castiel fighting for?

The Winchesters, he realized. Why he’d chosen them over his own family, Castiel couldn’t quite wrap his head around, but there it was. He would defend them to his dying breath. Even if they despised him. Still, the crushing weight of knowing that he’d been abandoned by everyone he ever cared about was like a physical vice squeezing his ribs. The pain made it difficult for him to draw breath, particularly with the chains wrapped around his chest. Weariness dragged him down, and he found himself wishing Lucifer would just get it over with and put Castiel out of his misery.

When the air whomped and a concussive force reverberated through the ground, he barely noticed. The demon dropped the hose with a clatter, however, and bolted from the alcove, leaving the water to continue gushing from the nozzle and slosh against Castiel’s shoes. Shouts went up outside, and Castiel finally lifted his head. Demons were running past, yelling about an attack. Another explosion punctuated the declaration.

Castiel straightened. Could Heaven be making a move? But the only reason they would do that was if Michael had… No, Castiel refused to believe Dean had said yes to the archangel. He wouldn’t do that. But…if he believed Sam was lost forever, if he feared the younger Winchester would succumb to the Devil’s influence, then Dean _might_ do the unthinkable.

Castiel wished his grace wasn’t locked down so tight; he desperately wanted to know what was happening, if angels truly were laying siege to the building. If so, and they found him like this…well, he wouldn’t have to watch the world be destroyed. It would be a mercy, really, if they made it quick. His heart lurched with a new fear—what if it was Michael who found him? What if the archangel walked through that opening wearing Dean’s face? For some reason, Castiel couldn’t bear the thought of Dean’s hand being the one to execute him. Even if it wasn’t truly the Winchester, Lucifer’s words echoed as a taunt in his mind; knowing what Castiel had done to Sam, Dean would have every right to kill him. And why did that fill him with more anguish than the idea of one of his actual siblings doing it?

Castiel tugged uselessly against the manacles. At the very least, he wanted to make sure Sam was spared. The young man hadn’t said yes to Lucifer yet; there was no reason for the angels to kill him. But it had been a long time since angels had exercised mercy.

Scuffling sounded from outside. “He’s in there!” someone shouted.

Castiel tensed, prepared to meet his doom in whatever form it came. His hopes plummeted when Dean Winchester swept through the archway, one hand fisted in a demon’s shirt collar, the other holding the Colt to the shorter man’s head. Righteous fury smoldered in green irises, casting a glimpse of something volatile underneath. An archangel’s wrath was absolute. Castiel braced for Michael’s attention to narrow on him, pulse fluttering erratically in his throat. Dread quickly morphed into confusion, however, as Sam strode in behind Dean, and Castiel found himself holding his breath. But, if the boys were together, that would mean…

“See? Your angel’s right there.” The demon gestured frantically, eyes wide with fear. He already sported a split cheekbone and bloody lip.

Dean’s eyes quickly moved from his captive to take in Castiel’s appearance, and there was no angelic burn in them, only the pure essence of Dean—raw determination and reckless bravado. The hunter’s eyes darkened on Castiel, and for a second, the angel was afraid Dean already knew, that Sam had told him of Castiel’s transgressions. But the cold voice Dean spoke with next didn’t seem to be directed at him.

“Sam?” he queried with just the right inflection that Castiel had come to recognize as holding hidden meaning, which only another Winchester seemed to be able to understand.

Without a word, Sam stepped up behind the captive and rammed the demon killing knife into his heart. A strangled cry gurgled in his throat, amber flashes illuminating the demonic skeleton within. Dean let the man drop to the ground to splash in the standing water. Then he and Sam sloshed through the puddle toward Castiel.

“Cas, you okay?” Dean asked, gaze roving over him once more before narrowing on Castiel’s neck where the thin slice from the angel blade dully ached.

Castiel could only stare, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Both Winchesters, alive, unharmed, _not_ possessed by one of his brothers, and apparently looking for him. It defied all logic.

“Why are you here?” he blurted.

“We’re getting you out,” Dean replied with a ‘well duh’ tone. But something like hurt flashed in Sam’s eyes, which sent a pang through Castiel’s heart. So the slim chance that Lucifer had been lying was wrong. Sam felt betrayed. And Dean obviously didn’t know. If he did, they wouldn’t be here.

“You should go,” Castiel said hoarsely. “While there’s still time.”

“No,” Sam interjected with a steeliness Castiel had only ever heard when the young man had been ardently defending his brother. Surprise caused him to look up and meet the Winchester’s eyes, only this time the anguish in Sam’s face held something more than blame, something Castiel couldn’t decipher. Sam’s jaw stiffened and he nodded with a promise. “Not without you.”

Castiel blinked in bewilderment, feeling ashamed that he had ever doubted the purity of Sam Winchester’s heart. Even after everything, he wouldn’t take revenge. Not by cruelly leaving him here.

Dean tugged at the shackle on Castiel’s right wrist. “Don’t suppose they left the key just lying around?”

“I imagine Lucifer has it. But my angel blade is in the corner, and might be strong enough to break the chains at least.” He thrust his chin the general direction, and Sam turned to go retrieve it. When he came back, he frowned at the drops of dried blood on the tip, then at Castiel’s neck.

“Did Lucifer…?”

“Demons,” Castiel clarified, and rolled his shoulder awkwardly. “Actually, they…would have done worse if Lucifer hadn’t intervened. He had commanded I wasn’t to be harmed.”

Dean snorted under his breath. “Let’s not go thanking the Devil for small kindnesses.”

Sam winced at that, for some reason, but quickly shook it off and inserted the angel blade into a link between the cuffs and chains.

Dean eyed the ones across Castiel’s chest with an intensity as though he could melt them off with his gaze. “These binding sigils?”

“My name. I’m…powerless under them.”

“Okay, just give us a minute.”

Castiel wanted to argue they might not have that long, that the boys should just go. Yet another part of him didn’t really want to be left weak and vulnerable to the machinations of his brother once Lucifer discovered Sam had escaped. Though the success of that remained to be seen.

With a crack, Sam managed to snap one of the chain links, and Castiel’s left arm dropped free. He attempted to shake feeling back into it while Sam passed Dean the blade to tackle the other manacle. Another wrench, and Castiel could move both hands again, though the sudden blood flow back into his fingers ignited dozens of bee-like stings in his digits. He gritted his teeth as his coat sleeves brushed over raw and jagged flesh. He caught Sam’s pinched expression trained on his wrists, and quickly looked away.

Dean worked the angel sword on the lock holding the chains across Castiel’s torso, and in another moment, they fell away. Castiel’s grace flared in the sudden release, and the pain in his hands and neck eased slightly. He was still weak from his captivity, but no longer helpless.

“We should go,” he said.

“Can you zap us out of here?” Dean asked.

Castiel’s brow furrowed in concentration, and he tentatively tested his wings. With his grace locked down by the sigiled chains, he hadn’t had a chance to heal them from the brush with holy fire, and the singed feathers quivered under the slightest extension. He could probably make it a short distance—though it’d be agonizing—but not with passengers.

“No,” he said regretfully. He couldn’t bring himself to meet their gazes; the Winchesters had risked their lives to free him, and he couldn’t even pay them back to make it worth their while.

“If you need a minute…” Dean offered with a wary glance over his shoulder.

Castiel shook his head. “My wings are…slightly damaged.”

Dean shot him a startled look then, and Sam suddenly looked ill.

“From the demons?” the younger Winchester asked, and the horror in his voice oddly touched Castiel. After everything, why did Sam still seem to care about him? Maybe Lucifer was wrong about the young man.

“No. They’re burned.”

Sam sucked in a small breath, and this time Dean’s complexion took on a green tinge. The older Winchester cleared his throat. “Guess we’re doing this the old-fashioned way.” Dean handed Castiel the angel blade, then raised the Colt and started toward the arch. The space immediately outside was clear, and Dean nodded for them to go left. “Crowley’s distraction was on the other side of the plant,” he explained, and Castiel was surprised to hear the Crossroads demon had been involved in this escape plan. “But I haven’t heard any explosions in a while, so he’s probably flown the coop already. Let’s hope no one comes back yet.”

Dean’s hope proved false as they rounded a steam generator and came face to face with two demons. Dean whipped the Colt up to fire, but the closest demon managed to grab his arm and wrench it sideways. Sam leaped in to help his brother, brandishing the demon killing knife.

Castiel surged toward the second demon, shoving both palms into his chest and propelling him back into a piece of machinery. His back collided with a pipe, which buckled under the impact, and steam spewed forth from one end, catching the demon across the cheek. He howled and jerked away, shooting his hands up to cover his face. Castiel planted one hand over the demon’s head, summoning forth the power to smite the vile creature from existence. Only nothing happened.

Castiel gaped in stupefaction. He felt his grace push with the need to obey, yet the power to banish evil came from Heaven, and Castiel was cut off.

The demon lashed out, trapping Castiel’s sword arm between his elbow and hip. Through blistering red skin, the demon leered and arched an arm back to deliver a heavy blow. But then Sam darted in and stabbed the demon, who fell lax in Castiel’s arms.

Dean stumbled over, looking no more worse for wear; the other demon lay crumpled on the floor a few feet away. “Dude, what the hell?”

Castiel’s mouth thinned into a tight line. “It seems I…can’t smite demons anymore.” The knowledge and admission rankled him; he had lost more than he’d thought. Again.

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, but didn’t comment further. Instead, the three of them continued making their way to the exit. They almost made it too, but then Castiel staggered to a stop as an all too familiar presence filled the space ahead of them. “Wait—”

Dean glanced over his shoulder, just as Lucifer stepped into their path. Sam skidded to a halt, and Dean barreled into him because of it. Both brothers teetered as they fought to regain balance, and then they were inching backward. The Devil’s forbidding bearing seemed to billow out much further than the mere size of his vessel, like some invisible, malevolent mantle.

“Well, I must say this is somewhat of a surprise.” Lucifer’s eyes narrowed on Dean, annoyance flashing across his mottling face.

Castiel twirled his angel blade upright and put himself between the Winchesters and archangel. Lucifer was blocking the door, but Castiel only needed to keep him busy so the boys could escape.

Lucifer roved his gaze over the angel blade in mild amusement. “So I take it you won’t be accepting my gracious offer?”

Castiel lifted his chin. “I found my third option.”

“You mean death.”

As it was always meant to be. Castiel had died once already. Either his being brought back was a mistake, or to fulfill this purpose once more. He was a soldier, fighting for goodness and humanity. No one could take that from him, not Lucifer, not his family. It was a sacrifice worth making. “So be it.”

“Cas…” Dean said in warning, but cut off as a silver angel sword appeared in Lucifer’s hand.

“Sam, Dean, run.” Castiel launched himself at Lucifer, and the clang of celestial blades rang out in a series of discordant screeches. Lucifer parried the first thrust, and swiped at Castiel’s abdomen. Castiel ducked under the archangel’s swing and spun around to slash at Lucifer’s back. The archangel, however, had full use of _his_ wings, and disappeared in a fluttering rush, only to reappear a few feet behind Castiel, who barely felt the tingle of power materialize at his back in time to pivot away.

“What do you hope to accomplish here, Castiel?” Lucifer said. “Even if you escape, I’ll find Sam again eventually.” He lunged, and this time his blade arced across Castiel’s arm, leaving behind a gash of pulsing grace and splatter of blood.

Castiel gritted his teeth and danced out of the way. His arm burned from the divine alloy cutting down to his true form, but he ignored it. He’d managed to get Lucifer on his other side now, leaving the exit wide open for the Winchesters. But one glance told Castiel they were still there.

“Dean,” he growled. “Get Sam out of here.”

Dean stood frozen, one hand clutching Sam’s elbow and looking torn, whereas Sam had a defiant gleam in his eyes.

“Well,” Lucifer drawled. “Isn’t this touching. Maybe they want to watch you die. And isn’t that why you’re willing to sacrifice yourself like this? Trying to atone for your sins, Castiel?”

“Cas, what he told you before isn’t true!” Sam shouted, distracting him. How was that relevant? And how could the younger Winchester even know the nature of his ‘conversations’ with Lucifer. Besides, his brother hadn’t really lied. Why wouldn’t the boys _just go_?

Lucifer’s lips curled upward. “Or maybe Sam wants to stay.”

Castiel brandished his blade. Lucifer slashed in response, and Castiel feinted left, willingly taking another slice across his ribs so he could twist and swipe at Lucifer. The tip of his blade scored along the archangel’s cheek, drawing a thin line of bright blue mixed with red.

Lucifer staggered back in shock, and slowly lifted two fingers to the split skin. They came away smeared with crimson. Molten fury erupted in his eyes, and with a flap of invisible wings, he flew forward in a whoosh of power and feathers. White-hot lightning speared Castiel’s chest as Lucifer’s sword plunged through coat, flesh, and muscle. Castiel barely raised his own blade in time to catch the hilt before the archangel’s weapon could pierce all the way down to his heart. The blades grated along each other, trembling with the force of resistance.

“Cas!” one of the brothers shouted, but Castiel couldn’t tell which. His ears were roaring from the rush of blood, and the fire in his chest threatened to burn him out in an explosive punch if that sword gained even half an inch.

Lucifer reached up his other hand to pinch the back of Castiel’s neck. “Your rejection grieves me, brother, as much as what I’m about to do does.”

Stars burst across Castiel’s vision, blurred by the flare of power wafting from the archangel mere inches from his face. _Please go_ , he silently pleaded to Sam and Dean. His arm quivered, rapidly losing strength. All he had to do was let go, and it would all be over.

A thunderous report cracked the air, and Lucifer jerked. The pressure trying to plunge the blade completely into Castiel’s chest lifted, letting him slip off. Stumbling under a wave of dizziness, Castiel nevertheless took that split moment to slide his own sword up and out. Lucifer’s blade flew from his fingers and clattered across the floor.

Lucifer clutched his shoulder, and just to the side stood Dean, Colt raised and smoking in his hand. The Devil’s face twisted with barely concealed wrath. “ _Ow_. Haven’t we already covered this, boys?” He straightened, and the bullet hole in his flesh gradually melded back together. With a flick of his wrist, Castiel felt a force slam into his chest and toss him back against the machinery. He grunted at the impact, wings flaring painfully as they tried to catch his fall when he hit the concrete.

“You know what, Dean,” Lucifer spoke, deceptively calm. “It seems you are the common obstacle to all my plans…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think I can pull another Hail Mary out of my hat? ;) Only one chapter left.


	9. Chapter 9

Sam couldn’t move. For all his years hunting monsters and bravely facing the evil that lurked in the dark, he was now frozen in terror, unable to act as the Devil himself strode toward his brother. A quick glance at Cas, passed out on the floor, showed the angel was no longer in any position to help them.

Dean retreated, only to find his back up against a conduit. He glanced at the Colt in his hand as though debating whether to use it again, but evidently decided against it, as he let his arm drop to his side. A grim resignation filled his eyes, an expression that sent chills down Sam’s spine.

“You want a knockdown drag-out right here?” Dean said. “Fine, I’ll just call your buddy Michael down and we can do this properly.”

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. “ _What?_ Dean, no!”

“Get out of here, Sam. You don’t need to see this.”

“Oh, I think he does,” Lucifer interjected, and extended his arm toward Dean, fingers curling into a gnarled grip.

Dean’s hands shot to his throat, the Colt clanging uselessly on the ground.

“And I don’t think you’ll be calling anyone,” Lucifer continued. He crooked his clawed hand, causing Dean to cough out a gasp for air and fall to his knees.

“Stop!” Sam yelled. “If you hurt him, I swear I will _never_ say yes. You hear me? Never!”

Lucifer canted his head in a smug mien. “Oh, I think you will, Sam. I think without your brother around to give you hope, you’ll give in all that more quickly.”

Sam’s eyes shot to Dean’s bulging ones as he fought for breath. He couldn’t let this happen, couldn’t let his brother die. “If I say yes, will you let him go?”

Dean jerked his head sharply, mouth moving but unable to form words. His face was turning beet-red, and he’d doubled over to list sideways against the conduit.

Lucifer loosened his fingers a fraction, allowing Dean to suck in one ragged gasp, and turned a considering look toward Sam. “You’ll say yes right now? If I let him go?”

“S’m,” Dean choked out, but the strangled word sent him into another fit of retching.

“If you let him _live_ and leave unharmed!” Sam said, not meeting his brother’s furious gaze. “Cas too.”

Lucifer’s lips pursed, and a moment later he relaxed his hand. Dean collapsed in a heap on the floor. “You drive a hard bargain, Sam, but you have my word.”

Sam’s shoulders were pulled so taut he thought they’d snap like a broken spring coil. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. After everything, after all his fears and doubts over his own resolve, stubbornness was what guided him now rather than weakness. How ironic. He just hoped Dean would forgive him. “None of your demons will stop them?” he pressed.

“None of my demons will stop them,” Lucifer repeated, and took a step forward. “Now stop stalling. Unless you want to see me pop your brother’s head off like a baby bird.”

Sam swallowed hard, the fated word sticking to his tongue like sandpaper. He hoped it wouldn’t hurt.

A flash of blinding light exploded before him, swallowing Lucifer whole, and Sam staggered back in shock. He hadn’t even spoken yet! He threw an arm up over his eyes, braced for the deluge of power that would snuff out his consciousness and bury it deep under possession. Only it never came. Lucifer let out a howl of rage and pain, and when the nova sparked out, he was gone. Sam stared blankly at the empty space, and finally his gaze drifted down to where Cas lay on the floor, barely propped up on one elbow. His other palm was planted in the middle of an angel-banishing sigil drawn in blood next to him. Cas lifted his eyes to meet Sam’s, and something passed between them—relief, astonishment. Then Cas flicked his gaze toward Dean.

Sam darted to his brother’s side. “Dean! Are you okay?” He grasped Dean’s shoulders and helped him sit upright.

Dean coughed into his fist several times before finally regaining control of his breathing. “The h’ll happened?” he rasped.

“I’m not sure.” Sam glanced back at Cas, who had slumped on the ground again. “I thought that sigil sent angels back to Heaven.”

“Won’t that be a nice surprise for the dicks upstairs,” Dean groused, and cleared his throat twice.

“Lucifer’s…banned from Heaven,” Cas spoke up, voice weak. “He probably…bounced off the gates.”

Sam paused to gape at the angel, not sure if he was serious or not. Cas’s lips twitched faintly as though he found the thought amusing. Maybe blood loss was making him delirious. There sure seemed to be a great deal that he’d used to draw that rune.

“Let’s hope he gets knocked out to Jupiter or something,” Dean grunted, voice still hoarse. “But to be safe, we should book it.” His gaze automatically moved to Cas in preparation for having to explain the idiom, but the angel had laid his head back on the concrete and closed his eyes.

Sam’s heart stuttered. “Cas?” He and Dean scrambled over and gently rolled Cas onto his back. There were two bloody tears in the trench coat, one along the arm, the other across the ribs. The worst sight was the deep puncture wound high in his chest that had not only seeped blood in a widening arc around the hole, but white-bluish light was also peeking through the torn fabric. That definitely could not be good.

“Oh shit,” Sam breathed, and pressed two fingers to Castiel’s neck. He was rewarded with a slow but noticeable pulse.

“Cas, hey.” Dean tapped the angel’s cheek. “Wake up, man. This is not a good place to take a nap.”

Eyelids fluttered sluggishly, half-shuttering blue irises wreathed in pain. “My apologies,” Cas mumbled, and tried to roll over again. The Winchesters each gripped a shoulder to hold him steady.

“How’d you get here?” Sam asked Dean. Because if Crowley teleported him and they were stranded, making a getaway was going to be really difficult.

“Impala’s outside,” he replied, groaning as he helped haul Cas to his feet. The last of the angel’s colored drained from his face, and he nearly crumpled. “Crap. Sam, grab the weapons, would ya?”

Sam waited a beat to make sure Castiel wouldn’t topple once he let go, and then hurried around to scoop up the Colt and angel blades. As he straightened, he heard the echo of a door slamming and shouts from the other end of the plant. _Shit_ again.

“We have to go!” he hissed at Dean, and looped one arm in Castiel’s to help drag the angel toward the door. The three of them stumbled into the waning light of evening, the lengthening shadows providing a bit of cover as they fled the plant. It seemed the remaining demons had charged in from the other side of the compound, leaving their exit clear. Sam caught sight of the Impala up ahead, a glinting black mound in the gradually deepening dusk, and felt an irrational joy at seeing _it_ , not just any escape vehicle. Not that he’d ever tell Dean how happy the Impala had just made him; only his older brother had an unnatural bond with the car.

They half-laid, half-pushed Cas into the backseat, and then the two climbed up front. In the next instant, the Impala revved to life, and Dean gunned it toward the road. They drove for several minutes, just to put some distance between them and the demons. And Lucifer when he finally made it back from wherever. Sam wondered if even in the next county they’d feel the effects of an archangel’s explosive wrath.

Dean finally pulled into the parking lot of a dumpy motel and went to rent them a room. Sam stayed in the car with Cas, staring out the windshield and feeling numb after that harrowing escape. They’d come so close to losing everything back there, and the realization that they _hadn’t_ , that they’d survived, was almost too much to believe. Not only that, but in the subsequent adrenaline crash, Sam couldn’t help but hear Lucifer’s sinister susurrations whispering in his ear. He’d almost said ‘yes.’ No matter what his reasons or good intentions in the end, he’d _given in_.

He jumped when Dean opened the passenger side door.

“Dude, you coming?”

Nodding mutely, Sam slipped out and moved to help Dean get Cas from the Impala to the room. The sun had fully set now, and one of the porch lights was busted, so they’d have no trouble secretly getting a beaten and bloody guy inside without anyone seeing. When Cas didn’t stir at their promptings, Sam was afraid he’d lost consciousness—or worse—and he berated himself for not keeping a closer watch on the wounded angel. But then Castiel turned his head, revealing eyes wide open, though dull.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean coaxed, tugging on his arm. “It’s not that far.”

Castiel scooted out of the Impala, face tightening in a pained grimace, but he didn’t make a sound as the brothers shuffled him inside. They eased him onto the closest bed, and then Dean jogged back out to retrieve their med kit while Sam started shrugging the angel out of the trench coat to get a better look at the wounds. This was good, this methodical, second-nature busy work to occupy his hands and mind so he wouldn’t have to dwell on miserable thoughts.

Dean returned, and together they set about patching up Cas’s injuries. The angel remained stoic through it all, simply staring straight ahead as they cleansed the lacerations and slathered them with antiseptic. They’d bound the chest wound first because it was still bleeding, though not heavily. Even with the layers of bandages though, a soft glow emanated through the white gauze, which frankly unnerved Sam. And Dean too, apparently, because as soon as the other wounds were tended, he grabbed an extra blanket and spread it over Castiel’s shoulders, draping the ends over to cover his chest.

“Hey man, you’re gonna heal up soon, right?” Dean asked.

Cas nodded mutely.

Sam picked up a lax wrist and examined the flesh rubbed raw from iron shackles. They’d only been in Lucifer’s grasp for a day; how hard had Cas struggled to cause this much damage? Harder than Sam had. The abrasions actually looked a little healed, but he cleaned and bandaged them anyway. Cas didn’t say a thing. Neither did Sam.

Dean suddenly let out a frustrated snort. “Alright, what the hell is wrong with you two? You haven’t spoken a single word since we escaped.”

Sam flinched, and tucked in the last strip of gauze around Cas’s wrist. “What are we supposed to say, Dean?” he said hollowly. “You want to yell at me now? Ream me out for almost saying yes to Lucifer? Fine, go ahead.” He stood up and turned around, spreading his arms in a gesture of vulnerability. “Just tell me how I nearly destroyed the world. Again.”

Dean stared at him for a long moment, then rolled his shoulder awkwardly. “You want me to say I’m not pissed as hell that you offered to give yourself up for me? ‘Cause it ain’t true. Of course I’m mad about that, Sam. You should never sacrifice yourself for me.”

Something sour stirred in Sam’s gut. “Why is it okay for you to do that though? You were all ready to call Michael down and say yes!”

Dean blanched, and turned on his heel to hide his face. “That…it was the last option I saw at the moment.”

“And what do you think mine was?” Sam bit back his rising tone, catching sight of Castiel in his peripheral vision. The angel was curling in on himself, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to fly away. Sam tried to tamp down some of his rising anger, but his voice still came out hard toward Dean’s back.

“Why is you saying yes heroic and me saying yes a failure?” He shook his head. “I’m never going to make up for Ruby and popping Satan’s box in the first place, am I? No matter what I do, you’ll never trust me again. Why should I even try?”

Dean whirled back around. “What the hell are you saying?”

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know, Dean. Everyone thinks I’ll say yes, that I’m too weak to resist Lucifer for long. Even you believe it.”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to; I can see it on your face.”

Dean surged forward, catching Sam off guard and grabbing him by the arms almost to the point of shaking him. “Where is this coming from?”

Sam ducked his gaze. In truth, he was all twisted up on the inside, unable to tell up from down anymore. He thought he knew what was right, what was wrong, but somehow, everything was jumbled. And it made him angry.

Dean tightened his grip, and his voice pitched low. “Did Lucifer…? Sam, what the hell did he do to you?”

“ _Nothing_. You saw, remember?” he said bitterly.

“I remember busting into a room and finding my brother trying to cover up tears. That’s not ‘nothing,’ Sam.”

“Sam,” Cas spoke up, voice gravelly. “Whatever mind games Lucifer tried to deceive you with…you have to trust in Dean’s love for you. He’s your brother, and would do anything for you. Nothing…nothing will ever change that.”

“Damn straight,” Dean added. “Hey.” He lightly shook Sam until his eyes lifted. “Talk to me.”

Sam tried to look away again, but another jerk from Dean had his gaze snapping back. “I…I’m a monster, Dean. All I do is get people hurt, _killed_. I’m going to get _you_ killed, either because I’m weak and will say yes, or because you will in a desperate attempt to save me. But it’s _not_ _worth it_.”

“You’re my brother; that’s the only reason I’ll ever need.”

“I’m a constant disappointment. You’re the strong one, Dean.”

Something haunted entered his brother’s eyes, and at first Sam thought it was directed toward him, but Dean stepped away and ran a hand down his face, one of his guilty tells.

“I’m not strong, Sam,” he said, voice thick with barely constrained emotion. “The truth is back there wasn’t the first time I said yes to Michael.”

Sam frowned. “What?” Was this about the alternate future the angels had sent him to? Sam thought Dean hadn’t said yes, and that was the whole point. Besides, his brother couldn’t blame himself for actions he hadn’t even taken.

“After you were gone…with Lucifer…” Dean took a shuddering breath. “I didn’t know what to do. All I could think about was Satan wearing you to the prom, and I wanted to save you from that, Sammy.”

“I don’t understand.” Sam’s brows knit together as he stared at Dean, whose eyes were swimming with regret and remorse.

“I didn’t know where you were or how to find you, so I called Zachariah, told him I’d say yes if Michael went and ganked the Devil right then and there, before it was you.”

Sam heard Cas suck in a sharp breath, but he was still struggling to process what Dean was saying.

Dean glanced between them and let out a humorless snort. “I was ready, too, had already said yes. Then Crowley showed up and banished Zach’s ass before he could call Michael. Saved my hide,” he added with a mutter. “The point is I was the weak one; I caved first.”

Sam felt the oxygen get sucked from his lungs. “So,” he said quietly, “you didn’t have faith that I’d last even one day with Lucifer?”

“It wasn’t about me not having faith in you! God, Sam, I didn’t want you to live out the rest of eternity as an angel condom, or be killed by Michael. Because you deserve better; you deserve a life! And maybe after the Apocalypse was over and I was gone…you could have that normal life you always wanted.”

“Knowing what it cost you?” Sam gestured helplessly. “How could you think I’d be okay with that?”

“Better me than you. And not because you’re _weak_ , Sam, or a monster—which is not true, by the way.” Dean jabbed a finger at him. “But because I’m your older brother, and it’s my job to look out for you.”

Sam just shook his head. It was a tired argument, but the familiarity was oddly comforting. Was that really what it had always been about? He thought back to that birthday so long ago, in a crappy extended stay motel just like this one with Dean attempting to make pasta. Sam only vaguely remembered that it tasted disgusting, or how Dean had nearly choked on several bites. No, his clearest memories of that time was Dean being determined to put on a cheerful front, ignoring for one evening how John left them alone for days at a time, how there wasn’t much food on the counter, and how there were no birthday presents. But Dean had made that day special, just as he did every year. His brother had literally gone to Hell and back for Sam, had always been there for him, even after he royally screwed up. How had Sam ever doubted that?

“I’m sorry. I just…I don’t know how I got so mixed up.”

Dean put a hand on his shoulder again. “Lucifer’s mind games are no joke, Sammy, I get that. But listen to me.” His grip squeezed. “No matter what happens, no matter the crap we’ve been through, the rough patches we’ve had and will have in the future—because let’s face it, you’re a pain in the ass.”

Sam snorted. “Is this supposed to be a pep talk?”

Dean’s mouth quirked. “Yeah, and I need you to hear and remember this—I’m proud of you. Of us.”

A pressure Sam hadn’t realized had been on his chest suddenly lifted, and he felt some of the tension bleed from his shoulders. “I’m proud of you too, Dean. And you’ve never been weak. Not even in Hell.” He reached up to clasp his brother’s arm in return. They shared a brief look of shared understanding and brotherly accord before Dean broke away. Sam couldn’t help but smirk—right, no chick flick moments.

Dean coughed into his fist and then turned to Cas. “What about you? What lies did Lucifer try to convince you of?”

Cas stiffened, and quickly averted his eyes. “It’s not important. I should actually go. You and your brother probably have more to discuss.” He tried to stand, but his knees buckled almost immediately under the weight, and both Dean and Sam lunged to catch him.

“Bull,” Dean called, holding the swaying angel steady. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere. Plus, we’re not letting anything simmer here.” He skewered both of them with a no-nonsense look. “Come on, Cas. Sam and I both fessed up, now it’s your turn.”

Sam’s jaw tightened at the choice of phrase, knowing where this was headed. He had only a vague idea of what Satan had tried to brainwash Cas with, and knew that they were treading very dangerous ground here. Because Dean’s temper often got the best of him in the moment, and if he lost it now and Cas took off, they might never see the angel again. But Dean was also right in that they couldn’t let these doubts fester and take root later. Cas didn’t deserve to live with that.

Sam slowly sat next to him on the bed. “Cas,” he said softly. “Lucifer told me about the panic room.”

Cas still didn’t look up, but Sam saw his shoulders bunch forward tighter. Cas had said his wings were too damaged to fly, which in this case may have been a good thing.

“I know,” the angel said despondently. “I won’t ask for your forgiveness, Sam; I don’t deserve it. Just please know that I never meant to hurt you. I thought…I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“We all were, Cas.” Sam rested a hand lightly on one bandaged wrist. When Lucifer had said Castiel’s loyalty to him was obvious, Sam had doubted the assessment. Now he’d seen firsthand how the angel was willing to fight for him, to sacrifice himself for Sam’s sake as much as for Dean’s. “And I don’t hate or blame you.”

Cas finally looked at him, a disbelieving yet desperately hopeful look in his eyes that tore at Sam’s heart. Lucifer really did know how to work a number on them both.

“Hold up,” Dean interrupted, expression hardening with the beginnings of suspicion. “What about the panic room?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam tried to say, but Castiel spoke up at the same time.

“I let Sam out, the night he went to kill Lilith.”

Dean stared at him dumbly for a moment, as though waiting for Cas to say it was some stupid joke, some stupid cruel joke. But Cas wouldn’t meet his gaze. Then the ire kicked in. “Wait, _you_ did that?”

Sam let out a heavy sigh. He was already exhausted from Carthage, his captivity with Lucifer, and having his own blowup with Dean only moments ago; he really didn’t have the energy for another. And neither did Cas, by the gray tinge to the angel’s skin and the way he could barely hold himself upright.

“You son-of-a-bitch.”

“Dean, stop.”

“Why? Shit, Sam, because of him you popped Satan’s box!”

“ _I_ let Lucifer free,” Sam rejoined. “Cas didn’t push me into killing Lilith.”

“No, he just opened a damn door,” Dean snarled, spinning away from them and starting to pace.

“We all had a part to play,” Sam snapped back. “Sure, Cas let me out, but if it hadn’t been him, another angel would’ve done it. I’m the one who went with Ruby.”

Dean continued to storm back and forth in agitation, shooting baleful glares at the angel. “I _trusted_ you.”

Cas cringed. “You have every right to take your vengeance, Dean. I…I’m not in any condition to stop you.” His gaze drifted to the angel blade sitting on the table next to the first aid supplies, far out of Castiel’s reach, and there was a grim acceptance in his tone.

Dean scowled and appeared to be seriously considering punching the angel or something, despite his wounds, but then he traced the path of Cas’s gaze, eyes landing on the angelic sword. He stopped short, confusion first replacing the fury, and then finally shock as he gleaned Cas’s meaning.

Sam gave him a pointed look. _Watch what you say_.

Dean ran a hand over his hair. “Shit, Cas,” he muttered. “I’m…I’m not gonna kill you, if that’s what you think.”

Sam frowned at the way Cas remained fixated on the floor, and then he remembered what Lucifer had told him when he’d asked to see Castiel, how Cas had a decision to make, because either angels would eventually kill him…or Dean would, when he found out about the panic room.

Something dark and ugly curdled in Sam’s gut, and he unintentionally dug his fingers into Castiel’s wrist, making him wince. He quickly let go and moved his hand to brace Cas’s shoulder instead. “That’s what Lucifer told you, isn’t it? To convince you to join him? That you’d have nowhere else to go because Dean and I wouldn’t forgive you? Maybe even want to kill you?”

Castiel rolled his shoulder in discomfort, not quite sloughing off Sam’s touch, but not quite accepting it. “As I said, it’s not of import.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” Dean interjected, exchanging a look with Sam, and this time they were both on the same page once again. They weren’t kicking Cas to the curb over this, and the angel needed to know that.

“Cas,” Sam prodded gently. “What happened when you were recalled to Heaven? It was right after that you came and let me out.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “You were gonna tell me something. That you knew Lilith was the final Seal. So if you knew Sam was gonna release Lucifer, why’d you do it?” When Cas didn’t respond, Dean grabbed a chair from the dinette table and dragged it over, sitting right in front of the angel and forcing him to look up. “I need to understand here, Cas. Tell me why.”

A flicker of consternation lit Castiel’s eyes. “I…thought it was for the best if this world was destroyed to make way for a new one. There’s just so much suffering and cruelty…”

“So, Bible camp was just some big lecture on how the human race is so screwed up we deserve extermination?”

Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s tone. _Not helping_.

Something haunted flitted across Cas’s face. “It wasn’t a…” He swallowed hard. “‘Lecture.’”

Dean straightened. “You mean torture.”

Cas furrowed his brow. “It…hurt, yes. But it was correction, not torture.” There was a hint of doubt in his inflection though, and suddenly Sam wondered if Lucifer’s methods weren’t all that different from Heaven’s.

Dean rubbed his face. “Okay, so they got you back in line, and you opened the panic room—”

“I am sorry, Dean.”

Sam gave his brother a meaningful look, and Dean sighed.

“I know you are, Cas. It’s okay. Sam’s right, we all made mistakes that night.”

“I will do everything I can to redeem myself to you both.”

Something clicked with Sam then, the lost, desperate note in Castiel’s voice resonating with his own fears and inner desires. _“He’s your brother, and would do anything for you. Nothing…nothing will ever change that.”_

Sam had never thought about it before, but angels were all brothers and sisters, right? Which meant Cas’s own siblings had tortured him, had banished him from Heaven. Lucifer was even Cas’s brother. It had been easy to see Castiel as a soldier of Heaven, one who went AWOL from the ranks to fight for another noble cause. But what if family was just as important to Cas as it was to the Winchesters? And what if, when Cas was afraid Sam and Dean would never forgive him…he was afraid of losing the only family he had left?

Now that the idea entered Sam’s head, it felt _right_. Cas was their family now. Sam wasn’t sure when the transition had happened, but Cas had sacrificed everything for them, and that kind of loyalty didn’t come out of mere duty or a sense of morality. No, Cas had chosen them. So they’d stand by him in return. No matter what.

“You don’t have to redeem yourself with us, Cas. Family doesn’t need to do that.”

Cas cocked his head, and a crease marred his forehead as though he didn’t fully want to trust the hope being offered.

Sam nodded. “You’re our family now. _Nothing_ will ever change that.” He glanced at Dean, who looked slightly taken aback, but after a moment, his older brother reached out and clasped Cas’s other shoulder.

“I know me and Sam are probably poor substitutes for what you had back in Heaven—though, really, you’re better off without those dicks who _torture_ their brothers.”

“ _Dean_.” Sam shot him a pointed look.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Dean continued, sparing Sam a retaliatory glare. “We’re here, if you’ll have us. A Winchester in all but name.”

Cas’s shoulders shuddered, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment. “That would…be a great honor.”

Sam and Dean exchanged a grin, but then they both turned serious again when they noticed Cas had slumped against Sam.

“Okay, you need to get some rest,” Dean said, shifting so he could help lay the angel back against the bed. Castiel grimaced as the movement tugged his wounds, which Sam really hoped would heal soon.

He tucked the blanket tighter around him, and patted his arm. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

Cas let out a long exhale as though releasing a mountain of burdens. “I know.”

Sam smiled. There were some things you could always have faith in.


End file.
